


Rose Among The Daisies

by Deerstalker221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anderson Is An Idiot, Anderson Is a Dick, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, But there is going to be a lot of angst, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forehead Kisses, Friends to Lovers, Historical, John is a God, John is a Sex God, M/M, Morning Kisses, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Sherlock is a Damsel in Distress, Sherlock is a gay baby, Sherlock is a little gay baby, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Slow Burn, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, This will have the happiest ending you could ever imagine, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:34:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 41,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deerstalker221/pseuds/Deerstalker221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is abused by the residents of the village in which he lives with his family, his parents decide that he must leave and live with his estranged uncle in the country. Sherlock prepares himself for a life of boredom and misery. - He couldn't have been more wrong.</p><p>(I am still working on this fic)</p><p>(Chapter 10 has just been edited and updated.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Barging through the large wooden doors, the youngest of the Holmes family clattered to the floor with a soft, pained groan. Across his back was littered with scrapes and cuts from where he had been beaten. His pale skin was now tainted with sickening purple splodges that a sharp pain seemed to resonate from deep within his bones. He lifted his head from the polished tiles in order to call for help. In doing so, he caught the attention of one of the maids. Her soft brown eyes widened at the state in which his face was ruined and screamed in horror. Her voice could have rivaled any banshee, the ringing waves of the shrill sound felt like a dagger had been thrust through Sherlock's ears. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to call for help, she dropped to the ground in an undignified heap as the fright shocked her into fainting.

Sherlock growled in frustration and pulled himself, with injured arms, to his feet. The muscles in his shoulders twinged in pain and drew a cry from the hurt man. Finally stood with his feet under him, Sherlock stumbled across the lobby. His stance was unsteady and hunched as he barreled across the floor towards his father's office. Alerted to the scream, Siger Holmes had opened the door and in an instant, his arms were filled with that of his son's trembling, bleeding body. "Stanley!" Mr Holmes called for the butler as he lead his son towards the kitchen. As Sherlock collapsed into his father's arms a defeated cry was thrown from his lungs, it was as if his body had decided it would stop trying, stop fighting and in that instant the Holmes boy felt frustrated tears cling to his eyelashes.

Once inside the kitchen, the staff acted in instant and cleared the large table for the man to be laid upon. The hard wood seemed to press against each of Sherlock's bruises and scratchy material of his shirt rubbed into his cuts. The distant cries and worried shouts from his father and the kitchen staff around his body were echoed and blurred as the all encompassing darkness swallowed him and he allowed it. Each muscle relaxed as he drifted into a stress induced slumber.

Sherlock's dreams lit his mind like a cine film against a blank canvass. He seemed to be walking through the village, in which he lived with his family. The shadows that lingered on the edges of the street, were darker than what he remembered, and from that darkness he could hear the distant cries for help and the weeping of families who had lost their precious loved ones. Alarmed by the treacherous sounds, Sherlock ran towards the police station, but as he lifted his feet to pound against the ground, he found that he wasn't moving. Shadowy arms, dripping with blood and tar reached out to grasp at his ankles.

A wave of panic washed through Sherlock's veins in a gross shiver. He threw a panicked glance around him in a search for something to haul himself from the arms that held him, but he could find none. "You're a disgrace, Sherlock Holmes." The sly and greasy voice wrapped it's way around Sherlock's frame, clinging to each pane of skin. From the shadows and into his line of sight, the silhouette of a man walking - no not walking, floating - towards him, his grin illuminated by an unknown source of light. He grew closer and closer by the second, until his stale and rotten breath, filled Sherlock's lungs and nose with a pungent mist. "You belong in a circus, Holmes. 'Freaks of Nature!'" The voice cackled at it's own joke.  
"Who are you?" Sherlock tried to speak, but his voice was rendered to a whisper, the power of his baritone stripped from him. "Release me!" He tried again. Another snicker could be heard from the figure. "Leave me alone!" Sherlock tried finally, but his words died in his chest as his eyes met that of the figure before him. Circles of pure darkness seemed to not only stare into Sherlock's soul but suck it from his heart. Sherlock couldn't tear his gaze from those hollow crevices. That was until a soft twinkling could be seen in whatever light there was in that dark and dreary place.

A dagger was clutched in the thing's hand. It was white and shining in the same light that lit the thing's grin aglow. "Good bye Mr Holmes." The voice trickled into his ears as the dagger was plunged forward and into the man's stomach. He felt it pierce each organ, and slit each artery. Pain blossomed in Sherlock's stomach as, slowly the hands at his ankles began to pull him down into the nonexistence.

With a gasp of much needed air, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright. His eyes flew around the room, searching frantically for the shadows, the hands and worst of all, that thing. Upon realising that he was in his bedroom, laying in his bed and that his dream was in fact that, a dream, he allowed himself to lay back down a wave of relief washing over him. Once his mind had came back to itself, the pain of his wounds seemed to scream in protest at his movement. He winced and tried to find a position that would be the least painful. But soon resigned to not moving at all.

Outside his bedroom door, he heard the mutterings of his parents speaking with one another. "We have no choice Siger. I will not allow my boy to be bullied and abused by those brutes!" His mother's withering tone could be heard from where Sherlock lay, even though the woman had seemed to try to ensure her voice was hushed.  
"I have already sent word." His father's own seemed to be that of a tired man. When the voices quietened to the point where Sherlock couldn't make them out, the door handle dipped and the door itself crept open.

His mother rushed to his side, her large voluptuous dress billowing behind her as she perched on the edge of his bed. Slender pale hands reached out and gently caressed his face and chest. "Oh, Sherlock. How are you feeling?" She asked. Brows furrowed, Sherlock tried to pull himself from her grasp.  
"Let him be, woman." Siger commanded, and at his voice Violet let out a huff and sat back, but her hands sought out one of Sherlock's, who begrudgingly allowed her to hold it.  
"How are you feeling, boy?" Siger asked, his grey eyes devoid of emotion. Sherlock sighed and sat up with a soft wince.  
"I am fine." Sherlock nodded, "Just, sore." A hum left Siger's mouth.  
"Who did this to you?" Violet worried. With a sigh, Sherlock glanced around the room.  
"It was Anderson, Violet. The boy was beaten by Anderson." His father had answered for him with a sigh of frustration, Sherlock's silence confirmed his outburst. "Sherlock, we have news for you." The man explained. At this Sherlock's eyes glittered with interest and he nodded eagerly for the man to elaborate. "You will leave the estate here and go to live with Maximilian, my brother." The light in Sherlock's face drained and left a dull, annoyed expression.  
Glancing from mother to father as he spoke, You can't be serious?" Sherlock whined. Siger's jaw tightened and he nodded.  
"Of course I'm serious, Sherlock. You will depart early in the morning."  
"You can't just ship me off..."  
"Oh Sherlock, we're not shipping you off. This is for your own good." Violet tried to soothe him and rubbed her thumb over his wrist.  
Sherlock laughed humorlessly at that and yanked his hand out of her reach. "It will be endlessly boring. I'll die from the tediousness of living on a farm." he spat out the last word as if it left a disgusting taste on his tongue.

A stomp from his father's boot was enough to silence the entire room. "We have made the decision, as your parents, to send you to Maximilian." Siger's voice was harsh and firm. Sherlock shook his head and refused to meet his father's glare, he couldn't swallow what his parents were telling him.  
"After all these years, you finally decide to be parents?" Sherlock challenged, "I am 19 years of age, you can't send me anywhere against my own wishes!" Sherlock shouted back to his father. Siger's eyes flashed dangerously.  
"You are leaving first thing tomorrow morning and that is final!" He screamed before marching from the room and slammed the door.  
Violet yelped at the harsh voice and loud bang of wood against wood. She sobered and patted Sherlock's hand where it lay on his stomach, she gave a soft sad sigh and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you have to go." She smiled pleadingly at him. "We don't want you to be hurt any more." Her voice was gentle, as was her touch. "Sherlock?" She asked after no answer from the man.

"Just leave." He muttered coldly. "I'll be packed for tomorrow and you and father won't have to think about me again." His voice bitter. His mother tutted and turned to leave. As she got to the door, she tried a final time. "It isn't like that, Sherlock. We love you dearly." She tried to defend hers and her husband's choice, but upon the silence she smiled sadly and slipped from the room, leaving Sherlock to sulk tiredly in his bed.


	2. Chapter 2

With a flick of his thumbs, the clasps on Sherlock's large trunk were clicked shut. With one last glance around the room, Sherlock sighed and gripped the handle of his case. "Allow me to take that for you, Master Holmes." Stanley's voice was crisp and tainted with the accent of someone born and raised on the outskirts of London. Without a word of thanks, Sherlock left the trunk on his bed and walked from the room. Each step seemed to pull at an injured string of muscles and he fought to keep the wince from reaching his face, but couldn't hide the slight limp that plagued his usual graceful steps.

The sun seemed to be able to reach every crevice within the house, for as Sherlock walked, he couldn't see a single shadow, not even his own. It was strange, almost as if his childhood home had already banished him from its memories. He hobbled down the stairs, his shirt pulling tightly across his chest. Once he stepped from the last stair and into the lobby, he herded himself through the large doors at the mouth of the mansion, not allowing himself to bask in the sentiment as he left not only the home, but his memories as a young boy. Once outside, he saw his mother, handkerchief clasped tightly in her hand, dabbing it at her cheeks. His father was stood to the side, hands held together behind his back and his chin in the air. Stanley, pained with the weight of the trunk, unsteadily made his way past the youngest Holmes and to the waiting carriage. He handed it to the driver, who tied it down on the roof of the cab.

With a final sigh, Sherlock made his way towards the carriage only to be stopped midway by Violet who tried to fold him into a hug. "Oh, Sherlock..." She whimpered. Said man, sniffed in disdain and tried to struggle from the woman, only to find that he was ensnared.  
"You're forcing me on this journey, the least you could do is allow for me to get it over with. I have no time for your helpless snuffling." Sherlock spat bitterly. He then glanced down at his mother, her face pinched in heartbreak. At the sight of her hurt expression, Sherlock felt a pang shoot through his chest, and if asked, would have told you it was entirely due to his injuries. Violet must have been able to see through the bitter lie, for she hugged him tighter. One unsure hand rose to pat her back solemnly. 

"I shall expect you to be writing to us?" Siger smiled officially at his son, he held his hand out to be shook. It was almost as if he were talking about a business deal rather than to his son, let alone the son who was leaving against his will. Sherlock crinkled his nose in distaste towards his father but nodded his head sharply and ignored his outstretched hand. Turning on his heel, Sherlock stepped into the luxurious cab of the carriage.

Once inside, he peered through the window and saw his father scurrying angrily back into the house, only to be followed by his mother. Sherlock almost fell back onto the wide seat. A gasp fell from the man's lips, when the driver seemed to appear out of no where and smiled at Sherlock, his yellow and black teeth on blatant display. "Mister 'olmes 'as sent fer me to drive you to the station, today. Shan't take too long, I'd imagine. Mister 'olmes gave me this to give ya." The man's cockney accent was so strong that Sherlock had to take a second to acknowledge what he had said.   
"Yes. Thank you." Sherlock muttered and took the envelope from the driver's dirty hand.  
"Now if you beggin' me pardon, sir. We'll make a start. If there be a problem, jus' bang against the roof and I'll 'ear you." The driver left the window to climb up onto his seat outside the carriage. With a clap of the whip and a loud yell, they rocked into motion. The horse's hooves plodding rhythmically against the ground.

Sherlock set the envelope down beside him and watched as he was driven from the Holmes estate. The drive way seemed to go on forever. The clattering of the wooden wheels on the white stones accompanied the trees on either side of the gravel road. As soon as they left the drive way, the sound of the road changed as well, no longer was there the scraping of the wheels on the uneven ground or the clatter of a wayward pebble being shot up to hit the underside of the carriage - the road was smoother and thus more quiet.

When they hit the heart of the village smog seeped through the open window. The stench seemed to linger, until they escaped the center of Surrey and entered the more rural countryside that surrounded the village. The fresh air washed out all but the putrid stink that lingered from the village. Sherlock leant back into the seats, they were filled with feathers and had a leather covering, for the most part they were rather comfortable. 

The time to get from the mansion and to the station took ten minutes, Sherlock spent each minute glancing from the window and out at the world around him. The scenery had gone from bustling village to empty country side. In the distance, Sherlock could make out a building, it was made from wood and seemed to be deserted. It wasn't until they were coming to a stop, did Sherlock see the occasional person walking within the station. 

Once the carriage stopped, the driver opened the passenger door. Taking the envelope, Sherlock slipped from the cab and took a moment to stretch his legs. "We're 'ere Master 'olmes. I'll take yer case t'the train. I were instructed by Mister 'olmes to see you off." The driver spoke with a happy tone, and smiled once more to Sherlock before reaching for the trunk. 

Sherlock made his way towards the station, there was a gravel path laid out and the stones seemed to crunch with each of Sherlock's steps. Fencing surrounded the station and there were bails of hay kept to the side along with a few barrels. Sherlock pulled his overcoat tighter around himself as he walked through the door and into the station. There was a roped chord that separated the ticket line to the waiting area, except the line was empty and there were only two people waiting in the provided chairs. Sherlock made to walk towards the ticket window, when the driver asked him to step aside. "I got yer tickets Master 'olmes. If you sit, I'll come an' getcha when the train's 'ere." Sherlock nodded his understanding and took a seat in the corner of the room and away from the man and lady, who sat together side by side.

With one glance, Sherlock could see that they were waiting for the train to take them to Lincoln, where a relative - Aunt? Grandmother?... No, niece - had died. They were husband and wife, and by the buttoning, or lack of, on the man's waist coat, Sherlock knew that he had dressed in a hurry, and peaking from the high collar of his shirt seemed to be a lighter shade of lipstick than that of what his wife was wearing. Sherlock smirked. An adulterer and his wife were waiting to travel to Lincoln for their niece's funeral. 

"Train's 'ere, Master 'olmes!" The driver of the carriage called for him. Sherlock's lips pulled into a tight lipped smile and he nodded his head briefly. He stood, righted his clothing and walked past the couple. "My condolences to your niece." Sherlock muttered as he walked by, chuckling to himself at the utterly shocked sounds the couple made as he left.  
"Yer trunk is in compartment C, sir." Sherlock nodded to the man, smiling lightly. "'Tis now I 'ave to leave you. T'was nice meetin' you, sir." Sherlock shook the man's outstretched hand and thanked him before stepping onto the train.

Inside seemed to be deserted. Sherlock walked past several compartments, each one seemed to be empty. On the left of each door there were gold plated letters, it wasn't until the bright gold curl of the C caught his eye that he stopped. He slid open the door and allowed himself to take a seat within the compartment. The chairs on the train were different to that of the carriage, rather than leather, the seats had a velvet-like covering.

Sherlock sighed in boredom as he waited for the train to start the journey. The tight feeling in his stomach worsened, he was able to ignore it before but, it seemed to have been getting worse the closer he got to his Uncle's estate. Sherlock took a breath and tried to dispel his anxiety. With a glance to his side he remembered the letter the driver had given him. Tearing the lip of the envelope, Sherlock peered within, he saw a small wad of money and a folded letter. He unfolded  it and began to read.   
  
_Sherlock, it is to my great displeasure to hear of you leaving Mother and Father's home in order to stay with our uncle. He is a kind man and I hope you understand as to why you are being sent there. Mother and Father had been informed of what the villagers had planned for you after you were to recover. I cannot bare to detail their plans in this letter for it grieves me so. Please take the money I have left for you and I hope to hear from you._

_Mycroft._

 

Sherlock growled at the letter and shoved it forcefully into the envelope. It was always his brother who had to stick his nose in his business. Each time Mycroft had gotten involved, Sherlock's life seemed to get a little worse. Hatred coursed through Sherlock's veins. He would use the money Mycroft had left him and wouldn't pay him back if he were to see the wretch of a man again. Brooding in his puddle of hatred, Sherlock stared out of the window and thought of the many ways he would like to rid himself of his horrid big brother.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives at the farm.

"Cup of tea, sir?" The soft voice of the maid was accompanied by a knock at the door. He glanced at the woman's reflection in the window and smiled. She was wearing a subtle dress, black opaque tights and her mousy hair was held up in a tight bun.  
"I think I will, thank you." He smiled and nodded his assent.  
"Very good, sir." She returned his smile and proceeded to pour him a cup of tea from the heated tin pot that rested on a trolley. "Milk, sir?" She asked, and after he dipped his chin in confirmation, she poured a dash of white into the red-orange liquid, "Sugar?"  
  
Sherlock glanced to her and smiled with a slight nod. "Please, two." He then reached out for the cup. "How long is it until we may arrive?" He asked politely.  
"Ten minutes, sir." Sherlock's cool gaze followed the lines of her face, she was tired and had been forced to tend the passengers on this train, she had been promised a day of reprieve. "Will that be all?" The reverie was broken with the woman's pleasant tone. Her forced smile was enough to shatter the tea cup, in his hand. At the bow of his chin, she slipped from the compartment and closed the door behind her.

His blue-grey eyes glanced into the cup as he took a long sip; the sweetness hit him first and then finally the taste of the leaves tickled his tongue. Humming with satisfaction, Sherlock's shoulders sunk as the tension was drained, he could feel the burning liquid hit his gullet like magma; opposite to a volcano, it slowly plummeted into his belly. He cast a gaze from the window and for the first time, since their departure, Sherlock allowed himself to actually see what was going on outside the window.

The hills rolled and seemed to bob like foam on the waves of the sea. Crystal blue sky contrasted with the emerald green of the grass, it covered the land like a fur coat. It looked so soft that it could have been fur for all Sherlock could tell. The scene would be interrupted by a stray tree and surrounding its outstretched branches, Sherlock could see a litany of birds nesting in its branches. He had obviously been travelling for some considerable time as the sun hung low in the sky. An orange hue painted the landscape, it was as if an artist's paint pot had been knocked over and the paint itself seeped into the picture.

If Sherlock were to lean closer to the pane of glass, he could make out a building that was very similar to that of the Station of Surrey. He gave a short sigh and prepared himself for their arrival. The screeching of the breaks on heated metal vibrated throughout the steam engine. Slipping the letter into his pocket, Sherlock left the compartment and silently made his way towards the door. Surrounding him were a few people, but it was obvious that Yarmouth was not a popular destination. 

The step that had been put in front of the train's door was an unsteady one and Sherlock stumbled. In an effort to keep his balance, he leant forward and then back until he stepped from the little wooden stool itself, at the sudden movements, aches and pains that had been long forgotten pulled sharply in his back and Sherlock couldn't hide the wince that clouded his expression.

The air seemed much cleaner than that of Surrey, he could take a deep breath and not feel the urge to cough and sputter, there was no pollution. Sherlock couldn't take a deep enough lungful as he drank in the fresh oxygen. Upon the wooden roof of the station, crudely cut letters were on display; they read:  _Yarmouth Station._ Taking one last glance to the train behind him, he pushed himself to walk from the platform and into the station itself. Once inside, it seemed to be bustling with people, all waiting for trains or waiting for people to arrive.

At the front of the crowd, Sherlock could see a tall man, muscular deep chest and wide set shoulders. His hair seemed to have lost its colour prematurely and twinkled in silver from the top of his head. The colour of his hair contrasted to that of his tanned skin and sunburned cheeks. Their eyes connected and the man stepped forward."Hello sir, might you be Sherlock Holmes from Surrey?" He asked, his arm outstretched in greeting. The man's voice had a thick London accent and the brunette couldn't hide the smirk from his eyes as he confirmed his deduction.  
"Yes, I am. Nice to meet you, Mister...?"  
"Lestrade, sir. Gregory Lestrade. My friends call me Greg."  
Sherlock nodded, the space between the two men was charged with tension and silence. Sherlock was compelled to say something in order to fill it. "Very nice to meet you, Lestrade."

"Yes. It is, I am the stable master on Mister Maximilian Holmes' farm. He sent me to accompany you from the station." Lestrade glanced at Sherlock's feet and a furrow creased his brow. "Where is your luggage?"  
"It was placed on the train for me, I am not sure of it's precise location." Sherlock chewed the inside of his lip in slight embarrassment.  
"Never you mind, sir. I'll go and retrieve it." Lestrade smiled. He left for several minutes, before returning with the large trunk clasped in his hand and balanced on his broad shoulder.

"Thank you." Sherlock smiled and followed the man from the station. Outside, at the end of the short path, there were two horses stood side by side, both saddled. One was a honey brown and behind it a small cart was attached. Lestrade dropped the case onto the cart and latched the back of it closed. The second horse was a lighter champagne blond. The miens of both animals were clipped short and their tails brushed.  
"We have no carriages at the farm, sir, so we travel by horseback. Can you ride?" Sherlock nodded and walked towards the blond horse.

It's eyes were a deep brown, and seemed to follow his every move. The black bridle was a stark contrast to its fur. The brunette offered his hand to the horse and allowed the animal to sniff at his fingers before he stroked it carefully. Sherlock slipped his foot into the stirrups and bounced on his hind leg several times before pulling himself onto the horse's back. From the weight of his body slamming into the saddle, the blond horse mewled in complaint, but remained still until Lestrade gave a soft click and the two horses began walking.

Setting the pace at an even trot. The sound of their hooves plodding against the ground along with the swaying of their backs was enough to lull Sherlock into a day dream. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular, merely basking in the gold light of the setting sun. The horses would occasionally pant harshly or make other soft noises, but the singing of the birds and gentle breeze on the back of his neck drained Sherlock of all of his stressful thoughts.

The tiny town in which they walked through had a grocers that twinned with that of a greengrocers, across the road from them were a butchers, fish mongers and littered throughout the street were three bars, each selling various food and ales. Finally, a chemist was situated at the end of the road. There seemed to be little to no people walking through the town and it all seemed eerily quiet, the only sound being the occasional squeak of a shop door or the sign of a bar swaying in the wind. It wasn't long before the silence was overbearing once again. "It's very small." Sherlock commented in a dull tone.  
Lestrade nodded and sighed. "Aye. It is a Sunday though, majority of the shops have been closed for the half day and many of the people have made their way to the church in between this town and the next." Lestrade explained as they rode through.

"Is every resident religious?"  
"Nah, not everyone, you get the odd gentile... and... what do you call those people with the strange cloth-like hats on their heads?"  
"They're turbans and are you talking about, Sikhs?" Sherlock guessed and Lestrade gave a laugh.   
"Aye that be the one!" He chuckled. Silence befell them once again. Both men were too stubborn to break the silence first, before Lestrade heaved a sigh, "So if you don't mind my asking, are you a man of faith?"  
Sherlock was about to answer when they reached the gate to the farm and Sherlock's attention was drawn to the land behind the large iron fence and gates.

A furrow creased Sherlock's brow as he gazed upon the land itself. It was very much unlike other farms in which Sherlock had seen, they were usually dull and for the working class, this particular farm had a large mansion-like building of such a beautiful structure in it's center, and around it there was a long building that may be described as a hall. Lestrade jumped from his horse to unlock the heavy gate.

Once inside, Sherlock could see the entirety of the land, it was very large, at least a thousand acres. And where there were clear and fenced off fields for crops with their own tool shed, there were also pens for cattle, chicken coops and various other buildings. Littered around the property were several shed-like structures. At the far end of the property there seemed to be a forested area and beside that what looked to be a vineyard.

Sherlock gaped at the size of the place. "Does this fence go around the entirety of the land?" Sherlock asked.  
"Aye." Lestrade took a glance to the fencing as he locked the gate behind them and reached to take the reins of his horse. "Let's get up to the house, it's very dark already and I need to help the lads light the lanterns."

The two horses continued to plod until they came to the house itself. Sherlock slid from his horse's back and the ground a little too hard, stumbling forward slightly he cringed against the aches. Lestrade rushed to his side. "Easy there."

Beside the house there seemed to be a symmetrical lining of trees. On the far bush, Sherlock could make out two sharp blades from behind the bush. Greg called to the man behind the plant, the gardener dropped the shears to the floor at the sound of Greg's voice and made to jog over to them. "Something wrong?" The man's voice reminded Sherlock of a toffee apple on bonfire night, it was warm and salty but a crunchy sweetness as well.  
  
"Nah nothing wrong, but could you take the horses to the stable?"Greg asked. Sherlock had allowed his eyes to land on the man Lestrade was talking to. He was wearing three-quarter length grey slacks, a white buttoned shirt that hung open. Sweat clung to the man's sun kissed skin, it beaded at his forehead and blond hairline. Hanging from the pockets on his belt were various tools. Sherlock's tongue was reduced to a waxy lump in his mouth as his eyes bounced of the man's abdominal muscles and the brown nipples that hid beneath his shirt. The gardener's eyes jumped from Lestrade's to Sherlock and under the power of those deep blue eyes, Sherlock found himself breathless, he had to drop his gaze to the ground for he couldn't bare the brightness of the gardener's gaze.

"Yeah, sure." The man then took the reins of the horses and began to lead them away, as he did he cast a soft toothy smile to Sherlock, who tried as he might, couldn't keep the soft blush from rising to paint his high cheekbones. "Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was raised to almost a shout and an amused spark twinkled in the lines of the man's face, he shook his head and once again, balanced the trunk on his shoulder. 

Nodding to the door, Lestrade led the younger man into the house. Within, it smelled of flowers, freshly baked bread and something vaguely familiar that Sherlock couldn't pin-point. From the main sitting room, a very tall, skeletal man stepped out into the lobby. His grey eyes shone with mirth as he caught sight of his nephew. "Ah. Sherlock!" He greeted and ambled over to the younger man, he stretched out his arms and gathered Sherlock within them. Startled by the man's estranged nature, Sherlock didn't know how he should have reacted, until Maximilian pulled away with a guffaw.

"How long has it been? For the last time I laid eyes on you, you were a bairn, yay high!" The man chuckled and had his hand leveled just below his hip. His hearty laugh seemed to rumble and shake the entire house to its core. "How was your journey, fine, I hope?" He asked.  
Sherlock nodded silently, still flabbergasted and unsure of what to do.  
"Oh do say something, ma'boy! You're almost as up tight as ol' Siger himself!" His booming voice was very much like his laughter.

Sherlock cleared his throat and smiled wearily. "Forgive me, it is nice to see you too, Maximil-." But before he could finish what he had said, was clapped on his left arm by his uncle.   
"Ah! Don't call me that, Uncle Max will be fine. I'm your uncle, not a colleague." He winked and chuckled again. Max settled his happy gaze onto the man beside Sherlock. "Thank you for getting him, Greg." Max shook Lestrade's hand, who then turned to Sherlock and bowed his head.  
"It was a pleasure meeting you." Lestrade smiled and left the house, closing the door behind him.

"I'm sure it's been a long day for you, why not take your trunk up the stairs and we'll have a brandy by the fire with some much needed supper?" Uncle Max clapped Sherlock on the back, "Or shall I say, much needed brandy!" He winked at Sherlock again and ambled back into the sitting room, leaving Sherlock and his case. "Which room will I be sleeping in, Maxi-er-Uncle Max?"  
"The far one, on the left!" The voice echoed from the sitting room.

Sherlock repeated the directions to himself and clasped his trunk's handle. He braced himself and gave a hard tug. He was able to drag it to the top of the stairs but it bounced off of each step. Once at the top, Sherlock leaned an elbow on his trunk and gave a deep sigh of relief. His lungs seemed to be on fire, his back crying out in sorrow and a thin film of sweat seemed to cover the entirety of Sherlock's skin; causing his shirt to stick uncomfortably to him. With his breath caught and the fire in his chest settled, he dragged the case across the hard wooden floor and to the instructed door. It was large and painted a deep ebony.

Inside the room, there was a chest of draws, a wardrobe with a large mirror fixed upon one of its doors, a queen sized bed and a large glass door, surrounded by windows that led to a balcony. Sherlock took the case further into the room and slid it under the bed, he would unpack later. The brunette sat on the corner of his bed huffing and glancing around the room, the colour scheme seemed to match the rest of the house. Burgundy complimented by an emerald green.

Grey-blue eyes fixed onto the balcony, Sherlock walked out and leant against the black twisted railings. The night had lost it's heat and a chill had seeped into the air, it was so dark that he wouldn't have been able to make anything out if it weren't for the lanterns, which lined the perimeter of the house and gates. Sherlock tried to listen to the silence but it was interrupted with hushed chuckles and sounds of glee. The noise seemed to be emanating from within the hall, golden light seeped from it's windows and lit the grass around it.

Chilled, Sherlock stepped back into the room, locked the glass door and pulled the thick green curtains over the windows. He turned on his heel and made to join his uncle in the main living room. The floorboards of the house seemed to creak and sigh with every step of Sherlock's boots, it creaked in the wind and from the top of the stair's Sherlock could see the soft glow of an open flame. As he climbed down the stairs, the light was accompanied with the fizzles and pops of the wood being burned. 

In the room was a large polar bear rug, it's fur a deep orange as it was dyed from the shine of the fire. At the hind and mouth of the rug were two chairs, the backs seemed to stretch a foot or two higher than Sherlock himself and they cast great gaping shadows across the dark floorboards of the room. Sat in the left chair, Sherlock could make out the silhouette of his uncle.

At that moment, said man turned to gaze around the back of the seat and smiled invitingly at Sherlock. "Sit, lad, sit!" He ushered and gestured to the large chair beside him. "Brandy?" He proffered the glass decanter, it's front face was patterned with intricate designs. Sherlock nodded and took the glass, that too had very delicate designs on it's side, the patterns rubbed against the pads of Sherlock's fingers. "You have a nice house." Sherlock complimented after he swallowed a mouthful of the alcohol. At the answering silence, Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to get the man's attention again. His chest swelled with self consciousness as he spoke, he was frightened of upsetting the man. "How long have you been in ownership of the estate?"  
"Oh, I inherited it from your great uncle." He explained to Sherlock, and relief washed over the younger Holmes. "A nice man as I recall, although he didn't like to talk much." Max's eyes seemed to distance themselves from the room as he slipped into a world of memory.

Silence befell both Sherlock and his uncle and he allowed his eyes to gaze about the room. They flicked from furniture to ornament until they settled on the large portraits painting above the fireplace. The painting was of a man, a young man that didn't resemble any of the Holmes family that Sherlock could recognise. His face was spread into a happy smile that reached his eyes. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to ask about the man in the picture, Max's voice took on a stern tone. "I have put together a timetable for you. I wish for you to read at least one book each week and you will work with my staff throughout the day. The working hours start from eight o'clock sharp and finish at dinner time. When the bell for supper rings, you may retire to your room, skulk around the estate or do whatever you wish. But you will follow this timetable, Sherlock. I will not have a nephew of mine being a lazy weak man. In order to be a great man, you must have walked at least a mile in all classes." The mysterious tone of his uncles voice matched that of the mystic poetic ending to his rant. "Am I understood?"

Sherlock nodded his head sharply and muttered out a shy, "Yes sir,"  
Max smiled. "Good. Now would you like some supper, lad?" He asked. Sherlock drained the last of his brandy.   
"No thank you. I'm very tired, it's been a long day and I'd much rather retire to my room for tonight." He smiled at his uncle and dipped his chin in a nod before he stood to leave. "Good night, Uncle Max."  
"Goodnight Sherlock."

Once in the sanctuary of his bedroom, Sherlock lay in the bed and stared at the ceiling, although his eyes was seeing something else - or rather someone else. The blond gardener and his God-like smile seemed to not only crawl into Sherlock's head, but into his dreams as the man was tugged down into a deep, all encompassing slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a gentle touch.

Thuds could be heard as each foot thundered to the ground. Bare skin snapping twigs, thorns thrust into the soles under the weight of the body above. Sherlock ran through unknown forestry. Voices could be heard from behind him. His ears twitch as he heard them getting closer and closer. He tried, with all his might, to get away from them. Just, please make the voices leave him alone!

The dried muddy ground that was scratching the skin from his feet morphed into that of soft grass, the blades tickled between Sherlock's toes. He was still sprinting. Legs shaking from under his weight, his head pounding from the constant running. Slowly, the trees started to become a rarer sight, as the forest opened into a green. Sherlock could see something in the center. Its skin bronze from the sun and its hair bleached from it's rays. Sherlock ran towards it. Only then did it become apparent that the some _thing_ is actually a some _one_. 

The man stretches from the long grass and smiled as he saw Sherlock. At the stretch of lips, Sherlock recognizes him instantly. He was the gardener from yesterday, Sherlock's chest tried to flutter in excitement and happiness, only to quelled by the sound of the men being him, the sound so frightful that it extinguished any happiness Sherlock felt. It was then that Sherlock saw, clasped in the gardener's arms were the shears from the previous day, he had been snipping at the too long grass around him. 

"Get 'im!" The snarling voices of the mob could be heard almost too clearly. Sherlock glanced back in horror and saw humans, not living ones, it was as if they had crawled from the depths of the earth. Worms wriggled within their wounds and their skin were ashen in colour. Blood still poured from their eyes in tears. "You won't survive this, Holmes!" The voice of that particular corpse seemed strangely familiar. It was as if, over time of constant abuse, he had been conditioned to fear that dreadful tone. Sherlock wanted to be sick at the very sound of it. 

Chest tight from fear, Sherlock had forgotten about the gardener behind him, until the golden man seemed to float in front of him and stood between Sherlock and the corpses; wielding the shears that seemed to be far too large, far too heavy. But that perfect man was able to take the weight of them in his two muscular arms. Sherlock marveled at the gardener before him, his stomach lurching in fear of what the corpse-like Anderson may do to him. His heart clenched at the thought of him hurting the gardener but at that same time, Sherlock's heart seemed to saw; the gardener was protecting him.

The blades of the shears came together with a clang, light emanated from the cut they made through the air. It was breathtaking, amazing and most of all completely mesmerizing. 

 ---

With a sigh, Sherlock's eyes slid open. - No, no, no. - The brunette forced himself to roll over in search for the dream that he had just awoken from. He wanted to know what would happen next in his dream, if the gardener had won the battle of if he lay in that green place, dead, his bloodied shears beside him. With a frustrated groan and resigning to wakefulness, Sherlock flung his legs to the side of his bed and he pushed himself to his feet. His head still full of cobwebs, Sherlock had forgotten as to where he was in the world and ambled over to the wardrobe. Flinging the doors open and finding no clothes to be there. 

The oddity of having no clothes in a wardrobe was far too much for Sherlock at that early in the morning, he glanced around, confused and tired. It wasn't until he felt the twitching deep in his jaw and the stale breath trying to flee his lungs that he gave a stretching yawn. Sherlock reached into the air and each of his bones seemed to crack into alignment, his muscles preened at the stretch. After pulling his hands back to his sides, he felt no pain or twinges and could have jumped for joy. Sherlock rolled his shoulders once more and grinned to himself, his wounds seemed to have healed. 

Having cleared his mind from the slumber induced fuzziness and remembering that he was no longer living at his family home in Surrey, but with his uncle in Yarmouth, Sherlock reached under the bed and pulled the trunk out. He dressed himself and made his way downstairs. Leaping from step to step, Sherlock couldn't believe how amazing it felt to have the freedom of movement. "Have a good sleep, lad?" The joyous and full rumble of Max's voice seemed to penetrate the 'one-man-show' in Sherlock's mind. 

"I did, uncle." Sherlock grinned cheerfully to himself and followed the voice of the man to the dining area. Much like the rest of the house, it followed the same colour pattern. Except there was a long wooden table in the centre of the room. Seated to one end was Sherlock's uncle and at the other there were silver cutlery lined up at either side of a place mat. On the far wall and opposite the door, there was a pane of glass that made up the fourth wall of the dining room. It looked out over the land, sunlight shone into the room and the reflection twinkled on the spoons, knives and forks at the table.

Sherlock slipped into the wooden chair and gazed at the shiny silverware. "Good morning." Max smiled across at him, his silvery eyes left Sherlock to gaze at the outside world beyond the wall of glass. "I expect you to be working today, lad." His uncle grinned.

Sighing at the memory of his timetable, Sherlock chewed at his lip nervously. He nodded his head and awaited for the breakfast to be brought to them, by the maid. The two sat in amiable silence until said woman came from the kitchen bearing the silver platters of food. Toast, jam, porridge and tea were the items in which they could select from. Sherlock spread a light coating of jam over his lukewarm toast, nibbling at the slice and allowed his grey-blue eyes to linger on the image of the pretty farm that lay just outside the large window.

The breakfast was tasty. Not being a lover of food, Sherlock paid no real attention to it. He instead chose to think of how he would go about the work on his timetable that day. A thick and harsh grip of nervousness clenched at his throat as he remembered how utterly useless he was, never having done an hour's work, let alone a day. He soon found it near impossible to swallow the small bites in which he was taking. A sigh left the man and he pushed away from the table. "Thank you uncle for the meal, however I would like to go onto my work." He stated and bowed his head, to which Max scoffed, sputtering food across the table.

"Don't be silly boy. You don't have to tell me where you're going every time you leave the room or the table. As long as the work is done and you are grateful to have lodgings with me, you may do as you please." Max then continued to shovel the sloppy spoonfuls of warm oats and milk down his gullet. The sight threw a shiver down Sherlock's spine and he fled from the room and out of the house as quick as he could.

The air outside was clear and breezy, with the wind came the bright sun. Sherlock felt himself lapping up it's delicious rays. The heat on his face was absolutely blissful. He felt like he could have basked out below the golden flares his entire life. But the words of his uncle rang through his ears, 'There's work to be done.' Sherlock set off in a meander around the grounds searching for something that could have been classed as work. He would push stray piles of leaves with his feet or watch a bird flutter from a tree. It wasn't until he heard the soft humming of that familiar voice that he came to an almost sudden stop.

Knelt beside a bed of flowers, the gardener from the day before was humming a tune and singing aimlessly to a song that Sherlock had never heard. His strong and able hands gently removing plants from pots and replanting them in the soil. Hiding behind a bush, Sherlock watched from a safe distance. He couldn't keep his gaze from roving over those dexterous digits as they caressed the plants in an almost loving nature. 

Bright blue eyes glanced up at him, crinkling with a dazzling grin, "Hello." The gardener greeted with a friendly tone. "You're Max's nephew?" The man asked. Sherlock's cheeks flushed with shame at being caught snooping, the blond would have probably thought he was spying, and now thought that he was a freak. He came from his hiding spot and found that he couldn't meet the man's eyes directly for in fear that he would catch aflame from his bright eyes. "I heard from the men that you'd be working with us for sometime. I'd happily teach you the way of the garden? That is, if you'd like?"

Sherlock forced himself to glance up at the blond's eyes, he could see where a dusting of mud had accumulated on the man's cheeks. "I would like that." Sherlock smiled timidly - why was this man being so kind? - His heart thumping a tattoo against his rib cage and only growing faster with each word that fell from the gardener's mouth.

The man smiled then, the lines framing his mouth were so prominent, that they carried the very gold dust that the sun would plaster across the clouds at both dawn and dusk. His eyes seemed to twinkle with every star, that could be seen, at night and Sherlock could feel himself being drawn towards the man as if he had his own gravitational pull. "Good. My name's John, John Watson."

Sherlock repeated the man's name in his mind several times. The handsome gardener had a name. Sherlock couldn't keep the grin from his lips. John's inquiring eyes peered at him from under his golden lashes.  
"And who do I owe the pleasure of meeting a man such as yourself?" The gardener's - no - John's eyes had a soft amusement painted within them as he beamed up at him.   
"Sherlock Holmes." The younger man sputtered.

John smiled, "I am very happy to meet you, Sherlock."  
The sound of his name rolling from this man's lips was like utter joy and Sherlock stared into his own lap hiding the blush at his cheeks.  
"I'm re-planting potted plants. Here." John, patted the ground beside him in an invitation for Sherlock to sit beside him. When he did, John held out the plant in his hand, it was sat in a black plastic pot. The green stem such a bright colour, and the flower that it presented was a mix of reds and whites with a golden center.  
"You loosen the plant from the pot, like this." John held it at the base of the stem and almost massaged the plastic confines of the pot. When the plant was moving freely. He gently pulled it out. "Then, you dig the hole with your trowel. But before you put the plant in the hole, you have to loosen its roots." Similar to the way he massaged the pot, John began to do the same with the knots and tangles at the base of the stem until it seemed similar to a fluffed cushion. He then placed it gently in the earth and covered the roots with the thick, moist soil, patting it down.

The scene was so fascinating to Sherlock. Watching such muscular arms and hands that could break all of Sherlock's bones like toothpicks, flex in an effort to merely loosen such a delicate thing. "You try." John grinned and held out a plant for Sherlock. He tried to replicate John's actions but almost tore the roots from the stem itself. Gasping at his own rough handling of the plant, his eyes met John's and he silently pleaded for assistance. The man smiled warmly and clasped his hands around the young Holmes' own paler ones and manipulated them. Sherlock's skin was tingling from the contact, John was so close that Sherlock could smell him. The scent of flowers, soil, sweat and something completely separate that Sherlock categorized as the purest scent of John.

"There you go!" John complimented as Sherlock replanted a flower on his own. The compliment warming Sherlock's chest and knotting his stomach. It felt as though a flock of butterflies had just escaped from the confines of their cocoons and were flying frantically within Sherlock in a bid to escape. "You'll be a gardener in no time!" John grinned. Their tranquil scene interrupted by that of a distant bell chiming. John's head shot up, alerted, as he listed to the sound. He glanced back at Sherlock with his dazzling blue eyes and smiled apologetically. "I have to go." John sighed. "I'm sorry." John explained. A frown creased Sherlock'sbrow, "Why do you have to go?" "With every sound of that bell, we have to move onto a different job. It ensures that everything gets done by the end of the day." John explained and clambers to his feet and dusted himself from the dirt.

Sherlock couldn't keep his eyes from the man and in a worried, anxious haze blabbed six words that he wish he could take back as soon as they left his lips. "When will I see you next?" Sherlock glanced down at the replanted flower and braced himself for the obvious berating that was surely to come from asking such a silly question. - No one likes Sherlock and no one would want to see him again. - "What are your plans for the night?"

Eyes wider than saucers, Sherlock gazed up in disbelief only to be met with the smiling face of John Watson. "I don't have any." He muttered and John grinned.  
"Great!" John's voice accompanied the elated expression drawn across his face. "The estate looks very nice at night, all lit with lanterns." John explained. "If you'd like, you're welcome to join me for my watch." Sherlock left shocked and speechless, but he nodded. At that moment, there was a light in his own eyes as he glanced back up to John. "I have to go, Sherlock. But I will meet you at the bush from yesterday?" Sherlock nodded. "I'd like that."

With that, the gardener took off in the direction of the stables. His tanned figure disappearing from Sherlock's sight as he turned the corner that lead behind the hall. Still in shock, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to move. He couldn't bring himself to make a noise, all he could do was smile. The smile transformed into a happy giggle. He was going to meet John tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns new things, and a friendship blossoms.

Steam rose from the food that had been placed before Sherlock. The thick scent was carried with the vapor and Sherlock’s mouth watered as he smelled it. The lamb stew was accompanied with a small roll of heated bread, Sherlock sipped at the stew only in an attempt to sate his stomach's incessant growling.  
"What have you done today then, lad?" The cheerful voice of his uncle disturbed the silence that had taken up residents in the empty spaces of the dining room.  
Sherlock glanced up swiftly before settling his gaze on the floating chunks of meat in his food. "I re-planted flowers." The short answer seemed to be enough to sate his uncle, for the man’s face cracked in a wide smile.  
"Not what I'd call hard work, but in comparison with what you are used to, it may seem quite strenuous."

Silence once again settled on the two men, as they ate their food. "Who were you working with, then. I assume that you didn't do this by yourself?"  
"John Watson." Saying the man's name brought a fluttering of excitement that coiled at the pit of Sherlock's abdomen. To onlookers, Sherlock would have seemed fine, the only evidence of the extravaganza happening in his belly was the rose-flush painted on his cheekbones.  
"John Watson? That fellow is one of my best men, he and his family have been with me for a good while. I am glad that you have found his company." 

As the two men continued to eat, silence was welcomed and banished as conversation stuttered on. It only came to an end as Sherlock placed his spoon in his bowl and dabbed elegantly at his lips, with the provided napkin. The younger man pushed away from the table, nodding in Max's general direction, and stood to leave the room. "Excuse me." He muttered softly as he swept through the door, his eagerness vibrating in every step.

Heart pounding, Sherlock tried with all his might to walk calmly towards the main doors. His legs seemed to be shaking with the effort not to run to the bush where he and John had planned to meet. He couldn't understand how he was so incredibly excited for another person's attentions when he despised other people. It was unfathomable. Not only did he dislike others but within seconds of being in Sherlock's company, people would almost always show their distaste towards him.  The inner turmoil continued until he slipped outside and the warm whisper of the night engulfed him, it ruffled his hair and stroked across his pale skin. It was then that he heard it; soft gleeful singing. He would have been able to pick the voice out anywhere, he had replayed the words that the man had spoken to him over and over and thus memorised everything about the voice. However he would never have associated John Watson's voice with the tenor that was gleefully singing now. Craning his ears to listen, Sherlock could pick out the words almost perfectly.

_ "Shave his belly with a rusty razor, Shave his belly with a rusty razor, Shave his belly with a rusty razor, Early in the morning!"  _

The words were tainted with an accent, not the one he had heard from John earlier that day, or the day before. It was seasoned with a soft Irish lilt. Sherlock allowed himself to move closer to the voice, feeling the words of the song to travel through him. It sounded like the chocolate coated toffees that he had been so fond of as a child. Sherlock could remember the sweet taste but once he crunched, the undertone of the salty innards was always there, the sweet and salty contrasted beautifully. The song had a happy exterior but the underlying threat of sadness lingered like a stench from the very center of London itself. 

_ "Way hay and up she rises, Way hay and up she rises, Way hay and up she rises, Early in the morning! Put him in a long boat till he's sober, Put him in a long boat till he's sober, Put him in a long boat till he's sober, Early in the morning!" _

As Sherlock got closer to the man himself, he noticed that John front was turned away from him, his nose and hands almost buried in the soil below the bush that they had planned their meeting. Whispers of leather against the blades of grass caught John's attention and he stopped singing, only to turn and smile at Sherlock. The broad stretch of lips seemed to snatch Sherlock's breath from his lungs and it was all he could do not to gasp at the sight.  
"Evening." John's eyes twinkled against the lanterns at the gate and perimeter of the house. The blue of his irises seemed to be dyed with that of the orange, making them appear a greenish shade, almost a deep turquoise.  
"Hello." Sherlock replied, his own voice breathless. At the sound of his feeble tone, Sherlock blushed a deep shade and dropped his gaze.

John grinned wider and rose to his feet, "It should be a nice night, it seems to have carried the heat from the day." The gardener commented, his tanned neck stretching out as his chin jutted towards the sky, as he gazed upwards. Sherlock's mouth watered slightly at the sight of the thick bronze column of flesh. He was so distracted that he almost forgot to speak until John's face met his own.  
"Y-Yes. It seems you're right." He stammered, the blush filtered down his own neck.

John chuckled. "Follow me, there's a nice spot on the other side of the house. I want to show it to you." The man then turned on his heel, his thin canvas shoes silent along the emerald floor. Sherlock fell a few steps behind the gardener and watched the different flies slowly appear as the night grew darker. They hadn't walked for very long, when John stopped and waited for Sherlock to catch up, even in the darkness his bright eyes twinkled and his dashing smile lit the world around him. 

Several feet behind John were flickers of light, at first Sherlock thought it was a swarm of fireflies. But upon walking closer, he saw that it was a large body of water. "A lake?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. He had known that the property was large, but he had no idea of there being any source of water for miles. "Aye. There're pipes that link it to the house, it's where you get you get your electricity and your water." John's voice no longer held the Irish accent.

"If we’re constantly using it, why doesn't the water level drop?"  
"There's a little tunnel that connects it to the rivers of the next town. I remember my 'pa used to tell me about how he dug it." John pumped his chest in pride at his father's work. "It should still be warm, it's positioned so the sun is constantly hitting the surface." The boyish grin that John then flashed was infectious and Sherlock found himself mirroring it, as the blond slipped from his shoes and sat on the edge, dropping his feet into it.  
"Is it drinking water?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yeah, but it goes through filters before it gets to you, another idea of Max's." John answered, then after a beat turned back to Sherlock, "You can join me, if you'd like?" He offered. Sherlock then untied his boots and slipped his pale feet into the water beside John's. 

The pair remained in a comfortable quiet for some time. Thoughts of John spinning and cajoling through Sherlock's head. "I heard you singing." He blurted out and blushed as soon as the words had left his lips. John turned his head to face Sherlock’s before returning to stare at his toes in the water.  
"I often sing while working, it helps the time go by. I often forget that I'm working after a while." 

Once again, silence befell them. John didn't seem to mind as he swished his feet in the water. The soft trickling sounds were quite soothing and Sherlock found himself being lulled until the thought of John's changing accent stuck out in his mind. "Your accent. I thought you might have been English, then I heard you singing and it sounded Irish?" Sherlock blushed again, the clumsy question was stammered and rushed, he chided himself at his poor use of the English language.

"Originally, my family were Scottish. But I joined the Royal Navy, the crew on board were Irish boys and I suppose I took on the accent." John shrugged.  
"You joined the Navy?"  
"You like to ask questions, don't you?" John's face was pinched in amusement as he chuckled. Sherlock blushed once more, and his eyes fell to the ground, he was about to pull his feet out of the water, muttering an apology and reaching for his shoes.  
John's face dropped and he reached a hand out to Sherlock’s knee, sparks shot up the man’s thigh.  "No. I didn't mean you should go. I was only teasing you, I'm sorry." John smiled, his eyes twinkling for forgiveness and only brightened like globes of pure light when Sherlock settled back next to him. He kept his hand where it was on Sherlock’s leg. "Would you like me to continue?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, he wanted to find out everything he could about the man. John seemed such a mystery and so beautiful that he shouldn't be among that of mortal men. He seemed like he should have been a God.   
"Please do." Sherlock thought, the more he knew about the man before him, the more John might seem ordinary, and Sherlock might have a chance to not lilt like a flower petal in his company. But it was becoming very apparent that John was no ordinary man.  
"Well, I joined the navy because I didn't want to be stuck doing what my family had done for generations. I had made it all the way to being captain of the ship." John's eyes grew dark at a sudden bad memory. "But, I got shot." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up so high they could have been tangled in his curls. John turned to glance at him and chuckled lightly at the expression. "It was quite superficial, but it was enough to be invalided back to England. I was then given the option, be a merchant sailor or join my father working for your uncle." 

"What was life like on the ship?" Sherlock asked, his gaze transfixed on the other man's.  
"Constant work. I'd say it was terrible, but I like working. Travelling around the world, you get to see such amazing things." John explained as he absentmindedly picked at the grass.  
"If you liked it so much, why didn't you continue sailing?"  
"I met someone."

Sherlock's chest emptied, he felt a lump grow in his throat and he glanced dejectedly down to his lap. It was obvious! Such a gorgeous specimen of a man wouldn't remain available. Sherlock wanted to hit his head against a wall, he was so disgusted at his stupidity.  
If John had noticed the change in Sherlock's demeanor, he didn't mention it. "Mary was her name. A farmer's daughter." As John continued to explain his past lover, Sherlock felt his face darken and his brows knitting together in a bout of uncontrollable jealousy. "She left me at the altar though." Sherlock snapped his head up. "Yeah. She turned up told me that she had found someone else and fled the town." John’s voice was distant, but he didn’t seem sad. There was something else, Sherlock couldn’t pin it.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock asked again, "I mean, why are you being so free with your life?" John turned to make eye contact with Sherlock and the brunette couldn’t hold the man’s gaze; if he were to look at John's eyes too long, he'd be engulfed in the man's greatness. John shrugged, his eyes searching Sherlock's face.  
"I suppose I like you. Don't ask me why or how, I mean just after a day of knowing you, how can I be sure that I like you. Just do, I suppose."  
Sherlock gaped at that, eyes wide in shock. "You like me?" He muttered.  
"Yeah." John nodded, smiling warmly.

It then became suddenly clear. John was teasing him again. "Are you making a joke?" At this, a flurry of emotions swarmed John's face, but the gentle and kind smile that he had been giving Sherlock the entire time, beat the other expressions, his eyebrows pinched in concern.  
"Why would I joke about that?"  
"No one likes me." Sherlock's shoulders fell and he dipped his head low. He knew, right at that moment, John was going to leave him. He knew, he’d sneer and walk away, just like everyone else.  
"Well, I do."

It was the second time that Sherlock was rendered speechless. He blushed slightly and nodded, "I like you too." He muttered softly. John threw his head back laughing.  
"I am glad to hear." He answered, his face amused. "I'd like to see you again, Sherlock."  
The blond's tanned skin seemed to glow as, yet again, he astonished the younger. Sherlock nodded, his chin bobbing fast.  
"I'd like to see you too."  
"Good! That's great."

Surrounding the two men were the sounds of nature, soft buzzing of insects, crickets chirping in the silence that the birds had left and the rustling as little animals scuttled around in the search for food. "When will I see you again?" Sherlock asked.  
"I'll be reaping the crops, in the first farm. I could teach some new things if you come and find me tomorrow?" John offered and in way of a reply, Sherlock grinned.  
"I'd like that."  
"Hm, me too." John hummed, his eyes drooping closed. "What about you?" Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.  
"What about me?"  
"I've told you about me? What about you?" John urged Sherlock to speak, but the man in question couldn't think of what to say. Compared to John's life, his seemed so pale and dull. Other than being constantly bullied by the other townsmen and his family, there was nothing that stood out in Sherlock's life. He felt himself flush a shade of red as he thought about the colourful and interesting life John has lead and the obvious suffering the man has gone through, and when Sherlock thought of his problems he felt melodramatic. Like a complete waste of space.

"Sherlock?" John's voice cut through Sherlock's haze, "Sherlock, are you okay? You disappeared. You were here, but your mind, it left." He smiled.  
"Nothing has happened to me." Sherlock admitted, at that moment he was tempted to jump into the water and drown.  
"That surely can't be the case. Lovely thing such as you, you must have a story. Amazing people don't just sprout from anywhere, you know?" John winked at Sherlock and smiled that dazzling smile.

After a few beats, the words that left John's mouth, moments ago, hit Sherlock with such a force it could have thrown him across the farm. "I-I... You... Think that I'm... Lovely? That I'm... Amazing?" Sherlock’s cheeks could have rivaled a rose or a deep red wine. "You've only known me a day."  
John nodded in agreement, but his expression never left the bright happiness that shone brighter than the sun itself. "Yes, I have, and in that time I’ve met you. As soon as I saw you I was completely perplexed. Amazed. You really are a wonder, Sherlock Holmes." John smiled.

Sherlock flushed to the tips of his ears, if the water were to make any contact with his face, it would surely evaporate instantly and be lost to the air. "I'm quite ordinary, I assure you."  
John hummed at that. "I don't believe that for a second, but it is getting rather late and if I am to expect you to work tomorrow, you need your sleep." Sherlock's eyes dropped to his knees, he didn't want to say goodbye to John now.  
"But what about you?"  
"I will sleep too." John chuckled.

A smile tugged on Sherlock's lips in reaction to the other man's laugh. "Only if you sing for me tomorrow." Sherlock’s eyes met John’s then, the silvery orbs struck John, they were the colour of an ocean after a storm. Full of life, full of strength. John nodded with a fake sigh.  
"I suppose so." He joked and slipped on his shoes. "I'll walk you back to the house."  
"Thank you." Sherlock grinned, put his shoes on and followed the man. Both in silence, a full silence that held the happiest of men in its grasp. It was at this moment that Sherlock was either under a spell or a curse. All he knew, was that John Watson was a God among men, he was perfect.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo sexy times for our aristocratic gay baby.

During the night, Sherlock fell into the shadows that overtook his mind, slipping into a deep all-encompassing slumber. He dreamed that he was waiting by the lake for the golden gardener to make his way to Sherlock, he was stuck so deep in his thoughts of the man that he was startled by the tanned arms weaving their way around Sherlock's waist.  
"Hello, you sweet thing." The husk of his voice and his breath tickled Sherlock's ear and he felt his entire body shudder with the feel of it. Sherlock didn't have the strength to reply and settled on gasping softly. He felt John's hands tackle the buttons, slipping each disk of plastic free from it's holding until Sherlock's upper body was bare and exposed.

His nipples were attacked by John's tongue as he laved over them with the broad and silky muscle, all the while his free hand slipping Sherlock's trousers down and over his hips and revealing his long thin length to the bright eyes of John Watson. He heard John's voice say something in his ear, but his blood was pumping so fast it seemed to drown out all noises and John’s voice was reduced to a soft and inaudible muttering. The sight of John's tanned hands so close to his cock was enough to make Sherlock loose his breath and gasp for air.

"Please," He begged quietly, his voice only barely above that of a whisper. "I need you." Sherlock breathed out. John began to stroke him lazily, focusing his attention on the head. Sherlock was a panting mess within seconds, writhing wantonly on the grass. The green blades were tickling his back as he wriggled, begging to be brought to the edge and then pushed from the precipice. "Oh John, please!" He whined high and keening.  
"If you need me, then come and get me." Was the last words he heard in his ear and with that, John had gone. Sherlock's body pulsed with need, but the very thing that had brought him there had disappeared. 

A crack of sunlight hit Sherlock's closed eyes as the morning light filtered through the thick curtains. Raising his hand to shield himself from the rays, Sherlock cracked opened his eyes and glanced around the room. The dream seemed so real, so enticing and he hadn't realised how hard he actually was, until a fresh pulse of lust flushed through the length of his prick. A moan left Sherlock's lips and he glanced under the sheet.

Glistening from pre-cum, Sherlock's cock was standing to attention and was demanding friction. Sherlock reached down and took himself in hand. Gasping, he pictured John. He thought of the muscles rippling under his skin, he remembered how gentle but powerful his fingers could be and how the man himself was a coiled spring, such power in his small but strong frame. Sherlock pushed into the tight circle of his own fist and whined. "Oh John." he whimpered and tugged faster.

Sherlock thought of how John might look, sweat coating his sun kissed skin, strong arms like pillars beside him and such a dazzling smile above him. He tried to think of how he might look if Sherlock were to slowly stroke at John Watson's cock. He imagined the noises, the smells and the tastes - oh god the tastes! Sherlock wished he knew what John's mouth tasted like, he wanted to know how it would feel to have the man's tongue dancing with his own. "John!" Sherlock all but stifled his scream of the man's name as he came into his own hand. 

Panting, Sherlock sighed, a delightful whisper of breath, as he allowed himself to relax into the bed. His muscles seemed so utterly at ease, jelly like. He almost forgot about the very urgent problem of his cum-slicked hand. Sherlock slipped from the bed and wiped the sticky liquid onto an old shirt that had been laying on the floor, from the previous night. He sighed again and glanced out of the window.  From the gap between the curtains, Sherlock could spot a figure, a familiar figure. Pulling on his underwear, Sherlock padded towards the glass door, pushed it open and leant against the railings of his balcony. His eyes completely focused on the body in the field that he forgot about his state of dress - or rather lack of.

It wasn't until the gardener in the field turned toward the house, did Sherlock realise it was John. A smile painted Sherlock's face and one equally as wide seemed to pull at John's. Although the man was too far away to really tell what expression he had, Sherlock wanted to think that he was smiling.  It was with this revelation that Sherlock remembered that he was only in his underwear. He ran back into the room and drew the curtains so fast that he almost pulled the long stretches of material from the pole. His entire body was flushed red, as Sherlock vibrated with embarrassment. John had just seen him in his underwear. John had just seen him in his underwear, outside. John had just seen him in his underwear, outside and not long after a graphic dream that featured said man. 

Remembering himself, Sherlock began to dress. He slipped his waist coat over his shoulders and pulled his overcoat on top, before making his way downstairs and to the dining area. It was here that the thought of porridge and his uncle's tedious conversation was welcomed after such a shame-ridden morning.   
"Good morning, Sherlock." the kind and very happy tones of his uncle's voice broke Sherlock from his reverie.  
"Good morning, uncle."  
"Did you sleep well? I heard a lot of talking throughout the night." His uncles expression matched the sound of concern in his voice. Sherlock choked on his porridge and flushed with embarrassment. He was certain that if he were to turn more red he would surely melt his skin.

"I slept well, thank you uncle." His voice slightly croaking from his coughing fit. He smiled at the man and pushed his gaze back into the food before him. The room was silent for some time, until again, Max broke it.  
"Where did you run off to last night, I heard you coming back quite late, I heard John Watson at the door."  
Sherlock's eyes landed on everything but that of his uncle. "He was showing me around the grounds." Sherlock smiled and before Max could ask any more invasive and probably embarrassing questions, Sherlock pushed away from the table. "I have work to be getting on with. I hope to see you later. I bid you a good day." The younger man smiled briefly before escaping to the outside world, where the sun was far too warm for the English summer and the wind was almost nonexistent.

He hadn't realised how fast he had been walking until he reached the field John was working; it seemed to have taken seconds to walk from the door and to John. Once he reached the fence, he raised his gaze to look at John. Said man grinned at Sherlock, his torso exposed and the sparse golden hairs on his chest seemed to reflect the sunlight. "Had a pleasant morning?" The gardener asked with a wink. Sherlock was sure he'd die from shame, first his uncle and now John. He was sure that it would say on his gravestone. 'Sherlock Holmes, a son, a brother, a nephew - Died from embarrassment.'

"I quite enjoyed the view." John smiled again, and it was this sentence that Sherlock almost broke his neck from whipping his head to look at John. He opened his mouth and closed it, repeating the action several times. It was as if he was speaking but with no sound. John glanced up and flushed slightly at the look on Sherlock's face. "Oh, I meant no offense." He held his arms up, as if to calm a doe.

"No. I am not offended." Sherlock clarified quickly, the answering look from John shot a happy and free feeling through Sherlock’s chest; if he had wings, he would spread them and fly high in the sky. The two fell into an amicable silence as their minds weaved together and around what had just been exchanged between them. It wasn't until John picked up a large tool, did Sherlock break the silence.  "What on earth is that?" He squeaked. 

John glanced at the thing in his hands and smiled ruefully, chuckling. His hands clasped at the long wood that lead to an arc of metal, sharpened to a most dangerous point and sprouting from one side of the blade was a cage-like wall of metal.   
"It's a scythe." John smiled, "We use it to harvest." He then gestured to the large beige corn plants behind him. When his eyes returned to Sherlock, he threw his head back in laughter at the expression of confusion on his face.

"It is quite simple, I'll show you." John chuckled. he turned and widene his stance, so his body was facing the wall of yellow crops. He held the scythe at the two handles and hunched his back. The muscles that stood out in the long expanse of the man’s wall of sun-bronze skin was enough to make Sherlock's mouth water. It was mid-morning and John had already harvested at least a quarter of the crops already.

The gardener then began to twist his body back and forth, carrying the scythe with him, the blade swung from side to side and cut the crops, the cage catching the reaped corn and throwing it to the side. John's arms held the weight of the scythe and as his body moved, his muscles rippling under the skin. As the blade travelled through the air, Sherlock heard the swooping and the soft metallic swipe of the stems stroking the blade as they were cut.

After several turns, John glanced back at Sherlock. "Would you like to have a go?" He asked, but the younger man’s face was pinched into an expression of self consciousness.  
"I'd cut your head clean off your shoulders." He muttered in response.  
"Na, I'll show you."

John then waved Sherlock over, the man stepped through the wooden gate and made his way across the field and to where John was standing. He had to lift his feet higher than normal and lost his balance several times. He was as unsteady as a newborn lamb. Once he was by John's side, the man weaved a golden arm around Sherlock's waist and maneuvered him so his back was pressed against John's broad chest. The warmth of the man's skin seeped through the thick material of Sherlock's clothes.

The position of them both reminded Sherlock of his dream and it took all of his strength not to let his mind wander to the nakedness of dream-John. "You grab the handles like this," John positioned Sherlock hands on the tool and then covered them with his own. The skin on skin contact shot, like lightning bolts through Sherlock's arms. He hoped that John couldn't feel the way his body was trembling. "And you swing back and forth." John then began to move Sherlock with him, they worked together moving forward and backwards, their bodies grinding together.

Sherlock felt a light brush of lips on the back of his neck, and they were gone. The sound of his uncle's voice sounded across the feild. "What are you boys doing?" He asked, his voice sharper than normal. John drew back and took the scythe with him.

"I was showing Sherlock how to harvest the corn, sir." Sherlock turned back to make eye contact with John and then glanced over to his uncle.  
"I didn't know how to do it and wanted to try." Sherlock added as way of further explanation.  
  
A hum sounded from the direction of Sherlock's uncle and the man nodded once. "Sherlock, I would like a word. Please, when you're ready, come back to the house." Max then left the two men and walked towards the doors of the mansion. Sherlock turned to look at John, as if he knew what words Sherlock would ask, the man reached out a hand and touched Sherlock's arm lightly. "The pond, at nightfall. I hope to see you." John smiled, giving Sherlock's arm a light squeeze.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, when John surged forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. It was like a flash, a press of flesh and then nothing. Dazed, Sherlock smiled and nodded his head. "The pond." He breathed and turned to follow his uncle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of ominous uncles and distant pasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say a big thank you to 0kare_bear0 because they have commented on every single chapter thus far! They have been very supportive and I am going to dedicate this chapter to everyone who has commented on my story so far.

A pang of anxiety hit Sherlock straight through the chest. It was as painful as a dagger. The metal blade piercing his skin and scraping through the meat between his ribs until it finally was thrust into his heart. He felt his hands become clammy with a cold sweat, nervousness could be seen in Sherlock's entirety and with every step.

Once he reached the house, he slipped inside and pushed the door shut behind him. After glancing around the foyer, he found the lingering shadow of a man, it was spread across the floor and protruded from the sitting room. Sherlock followed the puddle of darkness until he reached his uncle's turned back. It had never occurred to him how hulking the man actually was.

For a rich man, he seemed to have accumulated a lot of muscles. Sherlock didn't want to break the silence, the tension so thick he could have cut it with a knife. He felt the thickness of his uncle's solemn presence, he felt it vibrate through the joints in his bones, he heard it ringing in his ears. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, he heard the gruff growl of Max's voice. "It took at least two days to get that painting right." The random sentence hit Sherlock like a fist. He was stunned into remaining silent. "It should have only taken four hours." The whisper of reminiscence clouded the man's voice as he stared at the picture above the fireplace.

The last time that Sherlock had looked at the large portrait was the day that he had arrived. He flicked his gaze over the familiar features. "Who is it?" Max glanced back at Sherlock and smiled, although it didn't reach his eyes and it was hollow. He dropped his gaze down to Sherlock's lips and his features sobered. Turning back to the painting, he took a glass from the mantle piece and sipped at the almost golden brandy. "What exactly is transpiring between you and John Watson?"

A soft press of lips made it's way into Sherlock's mind. He allowed himself to slip from the sitting room and back to the field, where he was with John. He remembered how it felt to have the man's rough lips moving over his own. The soft and warm press of them. Sherlock remembered how time seemed to fall apart for that specific point. The only thing that had existed in that moment was the kiss. They were alone, the only two living organisms in the entire universe. He could write odes and lines of poetry to that one moment with that man. He could have strung together a book for how he felt about John - although thinking about it, it would have taken at least several novels to convey everything. It was at that moment that he remembered how very, not alone, he was.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and they landed on those of his uncle's. His throat went dry and his stomach plummeted to his ankles. "Nothing." He answered all too fast, his mouth tumbled over the word. "Nothing has come to pass between us." Sherlock couldn't face the full force of his uncle's gaze.   
"Don't lie to me." Max snapped. His eyes were flashing dangerously. Sherlock couldn't catch his breath, it had felt like a blow to his solar plexus. He couldn't answer his uncle, he couldn't. Sherlock silently begged for his uncle to leave the subject alone.

It seemed to have worked because Max turned his back on Sherlock again and glanced at the picture. "He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen." Sherlock's eyes snapped to the back of his uncle's head. A beat of silence commenced between them and when Sherlock said nothing, Max continued. "We were only young when we met. Oh, it was like magic. My heart seemed to actually try and crack my ribs with the force that it would beat." He chuckled coldly at the memory. "Oh he was so delicate, so perfect - like a china doll. I was so scared of breaking him, no one else seemed to share my fears though. We were to get married, or at least partnered. We were certain that something like that would have been available to us. But when we suggested it to our families, they turned against us; drove us away. We fled across the country until we found this place, it was here that we decided to live, but we didn't stay alone for long."

His silence was filled with pain and suffering. Sherlock could hear the tears rolling down his uncle's cheek. His brows furrowed, his feet were fused with the floor. "Please. Continue." He croaked.  
"They swarmed the house in mobs of people. They had all sorts of weapons. We were trapped here. He tried. Oh my darling boy tried to reason with them, but he was dragged to the center of the town, stripped of his clothes and bound to a stone table. - it must have been so cold against his porcelain skin. They... They whipped him. Stabbed him... Skinned him and finally they burnt him alive." A cold laugh left Max's chest. "But that wasn't enough, was it? They then thrust a barbed rod through his anus. He was impaled and paraded for everyone to see. So they could see just how much of a disgusting faggot he was."

Max broke out into a flurry of sobs. Sherlock glanced confusedly over Max's hunched and shaking body, where before he seemed like a hulking mass, he now looked so broken and small. Sherlock was about to try and comfort him but was saved the trouble when the man turned towards him. His tear soaked cheeks dripping with salty liquid.  
"You have to be careful Sherlock! You can't be as silly as we were. I can see what you and John Watson have, I can see how you feel about each other. I'm so sorry that you are cursed with the same thing I was." Max surged forward and clasped Sherlock by the shoulders. "But it doesn't have to be a curse! I will protect you both, I promise. My dear nephew, how wonderful is it to look into his eyes?" Max asked, his broken green orbs searching Sherlock's desperately.  
  
"It is as if I were to stare directly into the sun." Sherlock nodded his assent to Max and it was then that he let go. He stepped back and removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed at his cheeks. "Promise me to cherish him and that you will be careful?" Sherlock nodded earnestly.

Max's expression was washed with relief and comfort. His body was still small but it no longer seemed as weak as a moment ago. Sherlock glanced back at the picture and swallowed thickly. "What was his name?" Sherlock asked. With his back still turned, Max took a deep and withering breath. He glanced again at the picture and for a moment Sherlock thought that he would ignore him.

"Lucian." He muttered. "His name was Lucian Marcel Steep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for such a short chapter! I will write longer chapters in the future!
> 
> Thanks again for everyone's support and a special thanks to my best friend, Kat, who is acting as my beta through this. Thank you all!


	8. Chapter 8

Silently, from the pane of glass that acted as a mirror, Sherlock’s reflection stared back at him. He fastened each button of his velvet waist coat, the plastic disks slotting into place with ease that would only come from a well-worn garment.

From the window, a soft golden haze took over the room. The sun slowly began to set and cast it’s farewell in a flurry of oranges and yellows over the walls. Sherlock walked closer to the glass door and pressed his hand against it, the sun’s rays were clinging to the little clouds that littered the sky. It was a strange colour that made the world seem to catch fire.

At the thought, a shudder ran through Sherlock’s sinewy frame. The words that his uncle had described earlier hadn't left him. He felt haunted, fearful of what might happen to him - or worse of all, what might happen to John.

He turned his back against the window and stalked from the room. He felt the draining effects of the emotional turmoil that had been thrown at him. Like a one of the model horses, bound to a swizzling carousel, plagued to rise and fall with the motion of the ride; he had been pushed through both peaks and troughs. His heart forced to jump with the ride of the day. Each stair seemed to creak with the weight that hung over his shoulders. Sherlock felt like his knees could buckle from the force.

Standing in the foyer, Sherlock glanced to his left. He saw the glow of the fireplace ride and flicker up the wall to twinkle off of the golden frame of Lucian's picture. The painting’s eyes seemed to penetrate him with the twinkling happiness that seemed to be clasped in each pupil. He sighed and his gaze slid down and to Max's sullen silhouette, resting against the large chair.

Sherlock's body turned back to the front door, he couldn't keep the day's events from his mind. A hum of distant warmth kissed his cheeks as Sherlock realised that he was in actual fact, outside. He glanced back and saw that he was but a few feet from the still open door. How had he walked out of the house without realising it? He shook his head, as if to clear it of all thoughts, but only seemed to make it hurt more. He reached forward and pulled the door closed, before twizzling on his toes and making his way around to the lake.

Whispers of the grass against his shoes was enough to lull him into a calming trance, he was in a limbo, stuck with his thoughts. They were there, a constant hissing in his ears, but he was too exhausted from it all that he was unaware of his surroundings until warm arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Sherlock's heart hammered for a brief second, as his eyes flashed open and settled on the smaller figure before him. John had pulled him into an embrace. He was speaking. "-okay? Sherlock? Answer me. You're worrying me." His voice was laced with a concern, it had knitted itself into his golden and gorgeous features.  
"I'm okay." Sherlock's voice was much deeper than John's. But it was devoid of the hurricane-like storm of emotion, swirling and twisting within his body. John held him at an arms length and frowned up at him.  
"You must know that I do not believe you for one moment."

Sherlock smirked sadly. Of course. Kind, caring and loving John. Wonderful, beautiful, perfect John would have figured it out. Learnt how to read him so perfectly, like a book; picked out from a library and read from cover to cover.

He huffed a sigh and shook his head. "Why?" He muttered and was sure that he had meant to elaborate on the question, but he couldn't find the words to do so. Crystal blue eyes ran over his face, confusion in their every twinkle and shine.  
"Why - what? Sherlock, I don't understand." Sherlock remained silent, he glanced away, down at his feet. He couldn't face John head on, his brilliance too much for his tired eyes to take. He felt calloused fingers grip his chin and lift his head up to meet John's searching eyes.

"Why did you kiss me today?" Sherlock asked.  
John's expression softened and he chuckled breathlessly. He nodded his head, as if confirming how he would answer such a direct question and smiled back up at Sherlock. "I just-" But before he could speak, Sherlock had started up again.

"You have a sister. Or should I say  _ had  _ a sister, she is dead. Alcoholism. Why did she turn to alcohol? Your family abused her for her preference of women. But there is something else - Arguments and screaming matches all down to what? Her loving women? No, it was something deeper; more ingrained into our society. She held a deep reluctance to conform to what is expected of a lady. She was hurt and hated for being who she was. Your father was an abusive man to both of you. That is - in part - the reason why you joined the navy. It was a sure way to escape him. He was working here when my uncle and his lover would have come to take ownership of this estate, it was possibly down to your father's disgust at the prospect of two men, living as man and wife would. You were here at the time that it had happened, or you would have heard about it upon your return back to this place. So, you must be aware of what could happen to you if we were to embark on this - relationship? Courtship? But yet you still kissed me. So, I ask again. Why?" Sherlock finished his rant with a rapt breath, his eyes had glazed over with something similar to that of glass, he had shielded himself - finally! - from the emotions. He had blocked them out, closed off his heart.

During his long stream of deductions, John's eyes had widened and he'd stepped back. This was it, he would leave Sherlock and they would both be safe. He needed to drive John away to keep him from the same fate of Lucian. It was true, undoubtedly true that his uncle would protect them, but so would Sherlock. If protecting John meant pushing him away, then that is what he'd do. Sherlock had steeled himself for the punch, the sharp and painful words and finally that unbearable loneliness.

"That... Oh my god..." John stuttered, his head thrown to glare at the ground, he pushed his eyes back to meet Sherlock's. "That, was amazing." He breathed. Sherlock had been cringing, awaiting the worst, awaiting the inevitable explosion. He knew that John hated him now and it was only a matter of time before - Amazing? - Sherlock's head snapped back to John.  
"What?"  
"That was amazing."  
Sherlock took a deep breath and shook his head. "How did you do that?" John asked, his voice so soft and gentle.  
"I observed..." Sherlock muttered, he was utterly perplexed. This was not the reaction John should have. He should have been left alone with a stinging face and broken heart.  
"What's the matter?" John asked, a hand tentatively touching Sherlock's shoulder, said man couldn't keep his gaze from John.  
"I wasn't expecting that reaction..."  
John chuckled, "What do people usually say?"  
"Piss off." Sherlock couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his lips. He couldn’t keep himself from asking that dreadful question. "Why haven't you left me yet?"

The blond's brows furrowed and he stepped back, he glanced over Sherlock's features. Searching, he was looking for something to tell him that Sherlock didn't want him. But before he found it, he began to chuckle sadly. John shook his head and his sorrowful gaze met Sherlock's chest. "I have been a blind fool. Sherlock, please forgive me?" He asked and aligned their eyes, only to giggle at the confused expression that had been etched across Sherlock’s face.

"I don't understand?" Sherlock's voice was so small and uncertain, it added to his soft and china-doll like features. John reached a hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek. It was warm and soft under his palm.  
"I would never leave you, hurt you. I could never bring myself to." He muttered.  
"But, why?"  
"Don't ask me how. God, I have no idea how, but I am completely and undeniably in love with you, Sherlock Holmes." John stayed as he was for seconds. But before he couldn't stop himself, he surged forward and took Sherlock's lips with his own.

Catching ablaze like a wild forest fire, the bruising kiss shook through Sherlock's veins, it filled his chest and blew all the barriers from his heart. He was no longer protected by his shield. The amazing feeling from the last kiss they had shared, now reappeared in tenfold. John loved him. He loved him. Before Sherlock could stop himself he felt the tears drip from his eyes and cascade down his cheeks.

Wetness tickled John's face and he pulled away slowly, regretting each millimeter that he put between his body and Sherlock's. He allowed his gaze to run over Sherlock's face. Said man was filled to the brim with sorrow. John loved him, why did he have to love him? Sherlock's heard was seconds from shattering, his bones felt brittle and his skin could have turned to dust as he felt himself grow uncontrollably weak at the prospect. "What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked.  
"You love me..."

John couldn't keep from laughing and like a wilting flower petal, Sherlock wanted to hide from the sting that it brought. He loved John's laugh but the prospect of John laughing at him was too much. Sherlock wanted to hide from it. "I do hope it's not too horrible that I love you, and that you reciprocate?" John asked.  
"Of course I do." Sherlock blubbered. The smaller man's hand took residence on his cheek again, his thumb rubbing away tears.  
"Then what is the matter?" He whispered.

Wasn't it obvious? How could John not see it? Sherlock couldn't hide from the screaming reality. With each perilous wail that it threw at him, he was wracked with helpless streams of tears. "You are doomed. Doomed to a life of pain. Damned to danger. As long as we are together, you are cursed." Sherlock's voice caught in his throat and he was thrown into a coughing fit.

Once he recovered, John's face was softer - if that was even possible. "Oh you silly, wonderful man." John chuckled and kissed the wet tears from Sherlock’s cheeks. "I will never allow harm to come to either of us. No one would ever hurt you." John smiled gently. "If anyone were to lay a finger on you, my beautiful man. I will bring the fury of heaven and hell to earth. No angel or demon would keep me from defending you. I am yours. My strength will be your shield, my body your castle and my heart is yours to keep. Sherlock Holmes, neither of us are cursed, damned or doomed. We must rejoice! This a call for celebration. I promise you. From the day that I met you, Sherlock Holmes, my heart came back alive from years of numbness, my body's fire has now been replenished from the mere spark that it was and to this great inferno. I am happy, where I was unfeeling." John explained.

This time, it was Sherlock that pulled the smaller man into a kiss. All the words that he couldn't articulate were thrown into it. Everything that he was feeling, all the truths of John's own speech was passed through their connection of soft and wet lips. His entire mind shut down, however, when he felt John's tongue run across the seam of his lips. The prospect of allowing John into him was just as exciting as allowing him into his life altogether, and he parted his lips slowly. Their tongues hesitantly thrown into a gentle dance of dominance.

An ache deep within his chest grew in ferocity as his throat stung, his body calling out for oxygen. They broke away, gasping, needing air. But they couldn't keep off each other; lips and tongues dancing across necks and cheeks.  
Finally, John pulled away and winked at Sherlock. "I have my day off tomorrow." He muttered. Sherlock's heart flipped in excitement.  
"Pray tell, what do you intend to do with this freedom?" Sherlock's eyes glittering with happiness.  
"Well." John kissed Sherlock's chin. "I would like to give you a tour of the grounds." John grinned up at him.

Nodding, Sherlock smiled. "I would like that." It was then that Sherlock realised that the sun had completely left them, they were both stood in darkness. A half crescent moon was hanging high in the sky, it's watchful gaze over them both as John led Sherlock back to the house.

"I enjoyed tonight and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow." John grinned. Sherlock nodded in a silent agreement, but was unable articulate the words to accompany it, for his mouth was blocked with that of John’s sweet kiss. They were locked together once more. Tongues, lips, hearts. Their entire being connected in that one moment.

Once they pulled apart John bid Sherlock another farewell and seemed to almost skip back to the hall, where the groundsmen and women slept. Sherlock grinned to himself and touched a finger to his lips. He closed the door and turned, resting his back against it. His uncle's figure caught his gaze. There was a small smile hinting at his ashen face, he inclined his head. "Good night, Sherlock." Max muttered and made his way to his room.  
"Good night uncle." Sherlock managed, he couldn’t pick out anything other than what John had felt like against him. The gentle but powerful words that had been told to him. The fire in John’s eyes. Everything about the evening pulled him out of his deep trough and pushed him to his highest peak. Sherlock was going to be okay, John was going to be okay. They were going to be together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter, longer than the last - as promised. I hope you enjoy it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter what.

From beyond the pane of glass that stretched across the window-like door, distant birds could be heard singing their varied songs. Some were longer and screeching others were soft and gentle.

Having forgotten to draw his curtains the previous night, Sherlock’s room was flooded with a bright light. The heat that the rays carried were focused on Sherlock’s bed and his body was warmed from beneath the covers.

Tweeting, light and an ungodly heat all brought Sherlock to wakefulness. He stretched his arms high above his head and felt the muscles in his back pulling deliciously. A soft popping from his shoulder broke the silence within the bedroom. Sherlock cracked his eyes open but was dazzled by the intense light. He winced and drew his covers over his head.

A putrid stink curdled within Sherlock’s nose. The smell of his own sweating body mixed with that of the musty sheets pushed him from the bed. He glanced across the room and to the window, his chest plagued with a heavy sigh. Sherlock had no way of telling the exact time, and so resigned to working as fast as possible for each second that passed, he drew closer to seeing John. A distant thought chimed from within his head, it stopped him from walking towards the wardrobe and he was fused still as he remembered the stench of his skin. He’d have to wash himself before meeting John.

Scurrying to pull on his dressing gown over his shoulders, Sherlock slipped from the bedroom and to the lavatory. He found that it was rather large, there was a copper basin that sprouted from the floor opposite the door and within the center of the room was a wide and deep copper bath. He smiled at the idea of a bath but knew he hadn’t the time to draw the water, wash himself and dress in time to see John. Instead, he pushed himself towards the basin. 

The taps were stiff and hard to twist under his fingers. With a creak and rattling throughout the piping, a soft groan filled the room and finally steaming water trickled from the tap. Sherlock sighed gleefully and hastened to plug the basin’s hole before allowing to fill with the water. 

He twisted the tap again to turn off the stream before cupping his hands below the scintillating surface. He could feel the water stinging against his hands, he felt as if a layer of skin had been burnt away. The blissful feeling of dirt being forced from his flesh was enough to make Sherlock want to throw his head back in a shriek of delight. He barely caught himself from doing so and plunged his face into the bowl. 

It was deep enough for him to be able to fit his entire head under the surface. He ran his fingers through his hair, teasing them through the knotted curls. Sherlock scratched his scalp and rubbed his face.

Burning bloomed from within his chest and he pulled out for air. Tendrils of damp curls hung around his face, they covered him in lines of black and acted as a strange mask. Above the basin was a mirror. The silvery glass coated in a thin layer of steam, it wasn’t impossible to see his reflection. He chuckled at the sight the mirror revealed to him.

Perching on the palm of a dish, was a large clump of pearly white soap. He grabbed and plunged it into the water before scrubbing it over his face. Sherlock had forgotten to pull off his dressing gown and with wet, sud covered hands pawed it from his shoulders, revealing a naked pale torso. Sherlock ran the soap over his stomach, under his arms and across his chest.

Dipping his face back into the basin, he washed the bubbles from his face and hair, he then cupped the water in his hands and threw it over himself. He couldn’t care that he was soaking the floor as much as he was doing himself. It would have to dry throughout the day.

He then pushed his cotton underwear over his hips and threw them to the side. He reached between his legs gently ran the soap over his skin. Cupping the water in his hands, he dribbled it over himself and watched as the bubbles slid down his legs and to the floor. When he was sure that he was clean, Sherlock pulled the plug from the hole and watched the now ruddy water dance as it was sucked down into the depths of the piping.

Sherlock pulled a towel over himself and rubbed his skin raw in an effort to adequately dry himself. He tucked his dressing gown under his arm and wrapped the towel around his waist before running from the lavatory, and to his own room. Once inside he drew the curtains, shut the door and then let the towel drop from his waist and to the floor in a heap of fluffy cloth.

After dressing himself he slipped from the room and down to the foyer. “Ah Sherlock! How are you on this fine morning?”  
It was odd hearing his uncle’s chipper voice after such an emotionally draining day prior. Sherlock dipped his chin, an expression of surprise painted across his face. “Yes, uncle. I am fine. How about yourself?”

A deep belly laugh boomed from within Max’s chest. “I am much better today. For I have come to the realisation that Lucian, the splendid man he was, would have never wanted me to remember him by his death, but surely, by his life.” He explained. Sherlock nodded with a soft smile.   
“Of course, uncle.” He agreed.  
Warm eyes drunk every detail shown by Sherlock’s body, a smirk hung low on Max’s lips and he rolled his eyes at the young man before him. “Will you at least take some toast from the breakfast, your excitement is indecent.” Max winked and was rewarded with a bright blush of embarrassment.  
“Yes uncle.” Sherlock muttered before padding towards the breakfast table, it was here that he saw several different meals all laid out for the taking. He took a triangle of dry toast and muched on it before almost sprinting out of the door.

“Sherlock!” The voice brought an instant smile to Sherlock’s lips as he saw the golden head bouncing towards him as John ran. He came to a stop before the younger and grinned brightly. Once again Sherlock was overtaken by how absolutely dazzling and beautiful this man was.  
“John.”

Said main pulled Sherlock into a hug and gently pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips. It wasn’t as heated as the previous ones, but it carried just as many messages. When they broke apart a soft blush tainted Sherlock’s cheekbones and he grinned. “Hello.” He uttered breathlessly.  


John grunted and pulled Sherlock closer to his body, “You beautiful, mad thing.” He growled in Sherlock’s ear and the younger man gave a soft almost undetectable whimper. When they pulled away, John gave a grin and winked at Sherlock. “Tour.”

Inclining his head with a nod, Sherlock agreed. “Tour.” He smiled. They walked then, side by side, down the centre of the property. On each of their sides were fields with a different crop planted in each. Sherlock could spot the cornfield he had seen John reaping. It was the same place where they had shared their first kiss. Sherlock couldn’t believe that it was only yesterday. He grinned to himself and looked over to the blond beside him. The Sherlock from a day ago would have laughed out loud if the present Sherlock were to detail just how his relationship with John had transformed.

Bright daylight washed the entire estate with a buzzing warmth. It licked at Sherlock’s skin and kissed his eyelids. The grass was a healthy and full green that was tainted with the colours of the different crops. It was then that Sherlock realised how many people worked the estate. It was as if the entire time he had lived there, he hadn’t realised how busy the property was. Horses were pulling carts to and from the estate, men were laughing as they worked the fields and vineyards, maids tittered as they washed and hung the clothes to dry and in the distance, Sherlock could hear the different calls of various farm animals.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it.” John broke Sherlock’s reverie, he could see Sherlock glancing around at the place. His bright eyes wide with awe at how the estate was alive with humans and animals alike.

At John’s voice, Sherlock glanced towards him a soft blush moving down his neck, he nodded. “Yes, it really is.” He muttered and John entwined his hand with Sherlock’s.   
“A beating heart. Each person and animal working towards one goal. A circle of life that twirls around this place is amazing and awful at the same blissful time.” Sherlock couldn’t believe how poetic John’s words were, they danced through and around him as he delicately strung them together to make the sentences that dazzled Sherlock into silence.

The blond glanced at the other man and chuckled at the expression he was presenting him with. “What?” He asked.  
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and smiled, John’s laugh was amazing, he was the definition of a bright supernova. But Sherlock could never articulate that to John in the exact way he would wish to. So, he settled on something much more mundane and sighed. “You’re perfect.”

In deep rolls of pure unadulterated glee, John giggled once again and shook his head. “If you say so.” He resigned and they continued to walk, their hands swaying between them.

“The forest is what I find most beautiful.” John explained as they reached the mouth of it. The tall trees glanced down at them, they seemed so insignificant in the view of it. “Come on.” John grinned and tugged Sherlock along and into the shadow of the forest.

After walking past the first mess of trees, Sherlock found that no matter which way he peered, everything seemed to be the same. If Sherlock had wandered here alone, he’d surely be lost in seconds. His paler hand gripped John’s thicker and tanned one. As if acknowledging him, John squeezed back and they continued to walk through the forest.

Minutes past by, it felt like hours, and finally they were met with a large black iron gate. It was similar to that at the front of the property. “I thought there was only one gate?” Sherlock asked.

Beyond it, the forest continued for a small while, but he could see the twinkling scene of sunlight as it made itself known. “No. Max ensured that a second, hidden gate was built. He wanted it to be secret, so if he needed to, could escape easily.” John explained. Sherlock glanced at the man and saw a strange expression that seemed almost like fear. Almost as soon as Sherlock saw it, John had schooled his expression into a soft and happy smile that Sherlock was so used to seeing. The previous expression so brief that Sherlock was sure he had imagined it. At least, he hoped so. “That’s why he asks us to light the lanterns at night.”

“Sleight of hand.” Sherlock breathed in revelation. John stared at Sherlock and grinned, a proud but also a surprised pull of lips. “Yes.”  
“So if he is showing the villagers one thing, and then fled through an unseen gate, they would be unaware.” Sherlock explained to John and was rewarded with a smacking wet kiss.   
“God, you’re smart.” John breathed and kissed Sherlock’s neck. The brunette chuckled.   
“It’s obvious, John.”

The two then turned their backs to the gate and walked from the forest diagonally. As they exitted Sherlock had to shield his eyes from the sun as it cast its beam upon them. Before them were lines upon lines of grapevines, John kissed Sherlock’s cheek. The brunette then gave a high emasculating screech as John pinched his behind before sprinting into the lines of grapevines.

Sherlock blushed for a second before running after him. It wasn’t until he reached the vineyard that he saw how thick the walls of green were. He chuckled as he saw a line of yellow run through the gaps between green and red. Sherlock ran after it. They were stuck in the maze of grapes.

As Sherlock tried to spy John through the leaves of the grapevines, he heard John begin to sing. The song was melodic and bouncing. It was a work song but it’s words were so lighthearted that it could have been a drinking song. He could hear the playful tones and the happy lilts to the words. The comical sound caused a wave of laughter to fly from Sherlock’s throat. He grinned at the sky and shook his head.

Like a flash of colour, he saw John bolt out of the vineyard and towards the house. Sherlock gasped at the sight and followed. He couldn’t match John’s pace but he ran as fast as he could, his feet beating against the ground as he followed the gardener, who cast a gleeful grin back at Sherlock.

They flew behind the house and stopped at the lake, Sherlock’s chest burned with exhaustion. He heaved heavy breaths and giggled at the silliness of what they had done. John surged forward and caught Sherlock’s lips in a tight kiss. “Wanna swim?” He asked breathlessly after pulling away.

Sherlock’s brows pulled together but the smile remained across his lips. “Swim?” He asked. John nodded and pulled off his shirt. He then jumped into the lake and splashed Sherlock when he landed.

A yell of surprise erupted from Sherlock’s throat and he put his arms in front of himself, to defend against the splashes of water. He giggled and pulled the waist coat from his body and jumped in after John. He couldn’t keep from thinking how his parents would react to him now. Running unabashedly in front of everyone, but also jumping into water - with his clothes on. He through his head back and laughed away the thoughts of his parents. He was with John. In a lake with John.

Said man swam over to Sherlock and held him close. “Hello.” He grinned. Sherlock replied with his own smile and pushed their lips together. The taste of the water was exquisite as they kissed.

“I can’t believe I am doing this.” Sherlock gasped as he pulled away. John chuckled and nodded.   
“I can.” He muttered and kissed down Sherlock’s neck, his hand touching Sherlock’s chest. At the feel of John’s rough calloused hands gently running across his chest, Sherlock whined a sound of delight as they explored each other’s bodies with hands and mouths.

John moved his lips over Sherlock’s neck and his eyes caught something from the fencing behind them, his brows rose in shock and fear. He pulled away from Sherlock, “Let’s go somewhere else.” John muttered.

“What? Why?” Sherlock asked, he was just as breathless as John. He cast his eyes over John’s face, it was hardened - was that fear? John then nodded to the side, Sherlock followed his gesture and saw someone run from the fence. “Oh.” He muttered, his stomach sinking.

They climbed from the lake and ran towards the house, not caring for their dripping clothes, they slipped inside and slammed the door closed with a slam that rattled throughout the entire house. Max stumbled from the sitting room and his eyes widened. “What on Earth are you both doing?” He asked.

“We were seen.” John gasped. “A villager.” His tone was grave and his hand gripped Sherlock's. Almost like the younger man was a lifeline, almost as if John was afraid Sherlock would disappear if he were to let go of him.

Max nodded, “Very well, a maid can clean your mess. I shall get you both towels, and we shall discuss this.” He explained, his previous happy voice now once again solemn. “Are either of you harmed?” Max asked quickly, as if he had almost forgotten to ask.    
“No uncle.” Sherlock murmured and they watched the man pummel the stairs as ran up them.  
  
John pushed his lips onto Sherlock’s. It was a fleeting kiss, and as they broke apart, John’s eyes were wide and comforting. “No matter what.” He muttered. They both understood what he meant by those three words. No matter what happened, John would never stop fighting for Sherlock and would never leave him. No matter what.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for not posting sooner, I have had a lot of stuff going on recently. I hope to post new chapters more frequently, but I can't make promises :(

Emanating from the fire, a golden heat warmed both of their cold bodies and brought with it, a sense of comfort to the two men that were huddled together in a blanket of towels. Pacing from side to side, Max heaved a heavy sigh and took a sip of his drink. “What did they see?” The man’s gruff voice was enough to make both men startle.

“They saw us kissing and playing in the lake, I’m not quite certain if they were able to spot anything else.” John murmured.   
Max’s eyes hardened along with that of his face, he shook his head. “Either way, they saw enough to make the assumption that ‘indecent’ activity is happening on this estate.” His voice was grave and Sherlock saw John physically shrink with worry. He was absolutely sure that someone as lovely and beautiful as John Watson should not shrink, should not worry. He allowed his brows to furrow with concern for the older man.

So far, the youngest of the three hadn’t made a sound. His eyes were wide and focused on the fire. With every loud sound that the other two men made, Sherlock’s steely eyes would move over to glimpse at them before snapping back at the fire. He watched how each flame licked and kissed the rippling heat above them, it was almost like they aspired to be so much more than what they were.

Sherlock gave a sigh and clenched his jaw. “Who will know?” He asked, his voice a little croaky due to not using it. John and Max glanced at him silently. “Who will know… Me and John? Who will know?”

The broken sentence was enough to enforce the understanding of what Sherlock meant. Max’s shoulders drooped, “The whole town.” He murmured. Sherlock’s heart pinched, he had feared that answer and at the corner of his eye, he saw a shift of yellow and when he glanced, John had sat up straighter.   
“If the whole town knows, Sherlock and I are in danger. Anyone else on the farm. You.” John listed, his voice tight.   
A sigh left Max’s thick and tight chest, “We don’t know the severity of how the town folk will react.”   
“We do though! Lucian is an example of that.” Sherlock snapped.

Max was silent, he threw his eyes to the floor and heaved yet another broken sigh. “Yes. He was an example of that, but what happened to Lucian took place years ago.”  
“Dammit! People are idiots. Their feeble minds would not have changed a slither since then!” Sherlock roared and stalked from the room, leaving his towels on the floor.

The two men were left alone, their eyes fixed on the door from which Sherlock had left. John turned back to Max. “We are going to figure out a plan of action and then I will leave.”   
“No you won’t.”   
John raised an eyebrow, “I’m sorry?”  
“You will not leave, you will go and stay with my nephew. If I have learnt anything, it is that being alone allows for you to be vulnerable. Do not allow him to be alone.” Max hissed at the gardener.

Sherlock flung his door open and stomped into his room, he flung his clothes off and changed into his dry and soft night clothes. The material so silky that it kissed his cold and clammy skin. He then walked out and onto the balcony. He watched the estate. He saw the people working, watched how with each second that ticked past, the day wasted away.

After a long while, Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he had been stood at the railings of his balcony. His arms were aching from being perched on the metal, his legs were stinging from being stood for so long and with every breath his back wailed in despair. He concentrated on his pain, allowing it to fuel his anger and ease the incredibly sore mark that the day had left.

From behind him, a soft click of the door alerted him to someone’s presence, the long thick arms that then curled around him was enough to sooth everything into silence. Sherlock pushed back against John. He felt the strong and hard body behind him and he couldn’t help but want to purr and rub himself on John like a touch-starved kitten.

Soft lips touched his neck and Sherlock sighed. The two men stayed linked together for so long, their bodies entwined and their hearts connected. Sherlock smiled at the feeling of not being alone. “Hello.” He muttered dumbly after at least an hour of standing in silence.   
“Hello.” John replied and nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. “Your back is stiff, would you like to come inside?”

John felt the nod against his shoulder and he pulled the younger man from the balcony and to the bed, where they became even more tangled. “We came to a decision.” John explained.    
A sigh left Sherlock and he nodded his head, “I know you have. Yet you’ve decided to stay?”

John nodded and frowned softly, “Is that why you stormed off earlier?” He asked.  
“I didn’t storm anywhere, I walked away.” Sherlock replied sulkily. Of course he wouldn’t admit to being affected by something as dull as feelings, “But yes. I walked away at the thought of you leaving. I deduced it.”  
“Thought you had.” John muttered and kissed Sherlock’s neck again.

As the darkness began to unfold, they continued to lay together. Their bodies entwined and their hearts as one. “Are you going to tell me?” Sherlock teased.  
A smile stretched across John’s cheeks, “Yes. We decided to wait a little longer to see how the townsfolk react and try to live in peace for as long as possible.” The two men stayed quiet for a little longer. “I am not to leave your side.”  
Sherlock hummed in appreciation to the last sentence. “And if that goes wrong?” John kissed him softly and shook his head. “I’ll explain plan B another time.” He smiled. “You must focus on plan A.”

Sherlock grinned and nodded. They lay awake, kissing, adoring and loving each other. They were knotted together, both stuck together. Although if given the chance to leave both were quite certain that they wouldn’t ever leave each other’s side.

Darkness was the only colour that overtook the estate, and with it came a deep silence that unfolded and held the two men at peace. Throughout the night, at some point, the two had slowly allowed the inevitable call of sleep to take them. Their hearts as one, their bodies as one. They had no fears for the future, for three words hung so heavily in the air that neither of them had a reason to worry.  **No** .  **Matter** .  **What** .


	11. Focus on Plan A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to do as John instructs, he really does. But things don't always go to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! I am so sorry for this hiatus :( I hope you all enjoy this long overdue chapter. - This is pure porn!! (You have been warned)

Warmth surrounded the two men, who were cuddled in the sheets of their bed. Sherlock snuggled closer to the man beside him. John's body thick and strong against his own thin and slender form. Sherlock pressed his face into the blond's chest as he pressed soft butterfly kisses across the broad chest and slowly making his way up the tanned skin and to the muscular neck. He finally landed on John's face, said man broke into a smile, he hadn't opened his eyes before he muttered "Hey, gorgeous." At the compliment, Sherlock blushed a light pink and whispered, "Hi."

John chuckled, his body rumbling against Sherlock's as he wrapped himself around the man. "How are you feeling?" He asked. As he did so, Sherlock nervously pushed his hips forward, pressing his hardened member into John's thigh. The blond opened his eyes at that and allowed his heated gaze to flow across and into Sherlock. The younger blushed a deeper crimson as he tried to avert his eyes but couldn't seem to pull his own from John's, the deep blue of the irises were so alluring, almost dangerously deep and Sherlock felt himself falling into them. He had no control of this decent, only that he was falling into a creamy warmth that held him in place and pulled him impossibly closer to the depth of John's pumping heart. The beauty of this strong and impossible man was too much for Sherlock to bare, he thought he'd combust - break. But all he could do was succumb to the whims of those impossibly cobalt blue eyes.

John broke the silence and kissed the very tip of Sherlock's aristocratic nose as he then began to nibble at the man's jaw. "You are so pretty, so perfect. I just want to take you apart piece by desperate piece." John growled in Sherlock's ear, his mouth so close that with ever movement of his lips brushed against the shell of Sherlock's ear and forced a shudder to plunge down his spine. "John." He whimpered as said man began to suckle and nibble darkened welts into the slender man's neck. Pin pricks of perfect pain doused over Sherlock's body in a sensual dance as it coupled with the arousal already seated low in his groin. The two feelings contrasted and drew a velvet groan from Sherlock as he arched his back into John's all encompassing embrace.

At that, John pulled away to admire the purple marks on his lover's neck as he watched them turn even darker as blood gorged the area. "Beautiful." He muttered and pushed Sherlock onto his back. He continued exploring the younger man's body with his tongue and teeth. He licked and nipped at the prominent collar bone, he suckled the flesh into his mouth and continued to descend. His eyes fell on the two pink buds on the man's chest as he ran his tongue across the very tip of Sherlock's nipples. The younger pushed his hips up at the ministrations on his sensitive nubs as he watched in ecstasy, John playing his body as if it were an instrument. He knew where to strum, where to hold and what to leave alone. 

Sherlock's darkened eyes never left John's hulking figure as the gardener continued his quest to drive Sherlock mad with pleasure. "John please." He whimpered and watched as his lover merely grinned at his plea and continued to slowly - devastatingly slowly - make his way down Sherlock's body. He nuzzled at the jutting hip bones, they were just as sinful as his cheekbones, John couldn't help but admire them before pushing his nose there - just at the crevice, his hips made so he could inhale Sherlock's musky scent. He then cast a glance to the swollen prick, he grinned and took a hold of it, watching Sherlock for a reaction. Said man whimpered and nodded. "Oh God. I'm going to die, John I am going to di--" Before he could finish his sentence, John had swallowed him whole and sucked Sherlock deep into his throat, swallowing around him.

Fireworks of pleasure flew through the man, as Sherlock writhed and bucked into the warm silky heat that John provided. The gardener pulled off until only the head remained within his lips as he ever so gently tickled the glans with the tip of his pink tongue. Sherlock cried out at that. With every flick he shuddered. With every swipe, he bucked. Sherlock was no longer in control, he was a puppet and John the puppet master, for every swipe of that deadly tongue, brought Sherlock to a new position.

John continued to play with the man in this way as he encouraged Sherlock to moan and groan into the warmth of the room as he continued his ministrations on Sherlock's cock. "By the lord John! Please!" He didn't know what he was begging for, or what he was running towards, but he felt that precipice edging so tantalisingly closer as John continued to change his tactics and play Sherlock's cock like a flute. The gardener gave a particularly hard suck and with that Sherlock yelled. He screamed in delight as he felt his penis jump with ejaculation. He was wriggling and writhing with pleasure as John swallowed everything he had to give and then proceeded to wipe him clean. 

After the lovely display of stars dissipated from view, Sherlock slumped in exhaustion and smiled welcomingly as John wrapped his arms around his love. He snuggled tightly into the embraced and kissed the back of Sherlock's neck. His wrecked Sherlock but a post-coital mess in his arms. "That... Oh that was just... I swear the odes and poems that I have read do not even begin to detail what I have experienced, John." Sherlock gasped breathlessly. John chuckled with amusement at his love and continued to hug him. Just as he opened his mouth to reply they heard it. Outside. The screaming, the painful yells. The two lovers couldn't catch what the people outside were saying, but they heard a flurry of words. "Men"... "Indecent..." ... "Sinners!"

Sherlock glanced at John. This was it. The beckoning for the plan B Sherlock couldn't keep from his mind. Orgasm or not, Sherlock trembled for something different. His muscles spasmed through fear. He had only John for whom he needs to protect, the only problem being - John wants to protect Sherlock as well.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where plan B has to be forced into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed my last chapter which was basically porn with a little plot. We are not back on track and heading towards the end of the story. I hope you all enjoy my story. It is also confirmed that I am back from my hiatus and I'm sorry for it being so long since I posted chapter 10.
> 
> Anyway, on with the story!!

"Send them out!"  
"They're indecent, the lot of them!"  
"They should be burned at the stake!"

Beneath the mantlepiece and tucked away into the wall, the fire crackled. Its orange illuminated the sitting room and set the mood to a gentle romance, however the constant pacing of Max set the feel off kilter. A cold biting presence of stress danced under the mask of the romance, as Max set his feet clattering to the ground with each step. His worn and tired eyes flew up to rest on the painting of his love. Lucian's thin and wiry frame was accentuated with the heavy jacket he had worn the day of the painting. Almost as if they were echoing in his mind, Max was able to remember the very words the other had muttered to him.

 

***

 

"Do you not think it is vein? Having a picture of myself in the sitting room?" Lucian had asked, his eyes searching Max's as he brushed down the black cotton of the thick jacket. "Not at all, my love." Max muttered, his bulbous cheeks crinkled and rounded more with his smile. "If there is anything that I would like to look at, it would be your face." Max drawled as he then pressed the softest of kisses to the other's jaw. The skin there so soft, untainted. It was as if Max had stepped away from the present day and had fallen into the deep well of his past. The Lucian that stood before him was so real and forgiving as he had remembered the man to be. The yelling of the mob seemed so far away as he basked in the beauty of the man before him. Lazy mornings, desperate nights, he was able to recall the pleasures that they had shared together.

 

It was so sudden, so painful, for as soon as Max was able to ascertain what had happened, it was too late. A sharp pain wrecked through the larger man, for when he pressed his lips to the silky smooth texture of his hinge of his lover's jaw he found that it was not as unmarred as he had once thought. For the flesh now was rough, broken and painfilled under his lips. Max pulled away with a start and was faced with the very picture that he had seen on the day of the 'accident.' A putrid and viscous horror settled within the seat of his large belly as Max pushed himself away from the image, panicked and frantic he pawed at the canvass that was now presented to him, but couldn't seem to get any further than a few feet from the picture. Lucian's body stretched across a stone table, his skin bared to the world.

 

Tears fell from Max's eyes as he saw the welts and deep lascerations across the skin of his lover, the panes of flesh that no one other than Max should have been held privy to. His lover, his sweetheart was stripped not only of clothes but of his humanity, his identity, his dignity. "No!" Max screamed, trying to dash away from the image. With each useless step, something about the body changed, confusion crinkled at Max's face for it was no long Lucian that glanced up from the stone. The skin had paled to the white of snow, the eyes had drained of colour until they held a silvery flash, the cheeks heightened with the sharpest of cheekbones. The man that laid before him bared and marred was no longer Lucian, but the dainty body of his nephew.

 

"Sherlock!" He screamed, except it wasn't his guttural yell. In the panicked and pained attempts at escape, Max had failed to notice John join them in the frame of the image. A fog had settled over his own memory as he struggled to see what was before him. With squinting eyes, Max could make out the trembling figure of his gardener, the thick bunched muscles of John's own tanned body hung like a canopy above Sherlock's broken one. A soft graze of fingers brushed against Max's right shoulder. The cold fingers that had touched him brought him spinning around, startled and frightened, until his eyes fell on the culprit. Before him, stood as in his favourite portrait, Lucian smiled sadly, his eyes were dulled with the exposure to violence, his face was settled into a dull expression, so relaxed, almost as if his body was present but Lucian was gone.

 

Max moved a hand forward to press his palm to his lover's cheek when the man spoke. "Oh my darling." Lucian muttered, his voice but a bitter croak and too soft and quiet - barely above the volume of a breathless whisper. "I beg of you not to leave the mansion." The words registered within Max's mind as the setting around them changed once more. No longer were they surrounded by an angry mob within the centre of the village. They were now stood in the sitting room of their estate. Lucian pushed a tumbler of scotch into Max's hand and he pressed a gentle kiss to the man's cheek. "They have found us, they have discovered our secret." His tone was grave, but again his face held no expression - like a puppet. He walked away from Max, his body loss and relaxed, Lucian walked from the sitting room and to the large front doors. He rested his hand upon the knob before glancing over his shoulder and at Max. "They may have me, but you must remain safe. Stay here, lock the doors, do not leave the mansion!" The words were desperate begging banners flying across Max's vision. With each syllable his eyes were glossed by another round of tears as he watched his lover fade through the doors with the still building anger of the townsfolk.

 

"No Lucian!" He screamed, both in his mind's eye and in the cold reality of life itself. The fire crackled in under the mantle piece, it gave a squeaking that ended with a particularly loud pop. Max flinched where he stood and glanced up to the portrait again. Within his hand, he still held the tumbler filled with scotch. "If history repeats itself, and the unexpected always happens, how incapable must Man be of learning from experience." Lucian's voice echoed through the room. Max's brows drew into a confused pinch. Lucian glanced down from his place, still scrawled into the canvas. "Please, my love! Do not leave the mansion!" The words were repeated from history once more as Max focused once again on his lover's face, the lines drawn onto the picture changed from a panicked crinkle and to a relaxed and loving expression. "Learn, my love, be the man that had learned from experience." Lucian begged.

"Max, what the hell is happening?" John's barely hidden snarl tore through the fabric veil of inebriation that had settled over Max, the man couldn't remove his eyes from the painting, as Lucian's once moving form had now relaxed and retreated back in to the drawn position from the beginning. John's unlaced boots clattered against the wooden floor as he marched from window to window, blue eyes peaked out at the hoard of angry townsfolk pressed against the iron of the gates. "What is happening?" John shouted, anger rearing it's head and pumping a violent and venomous poison through his veins. Max's eyes strayed from the portrait of his lover then and flew across the room to dance across John's form.

 

His shirt was buttoned up wonkily, his canvas trousers opened, his belt clinking with each move that the gardener made. A gasp could be heard from the doorway and Max peered behind himself to find Sherlock in a very similar state of dress to John. A flurry of relief waved over Max's too-hot heart as his eyes lapped at the image of Sherlock, the man was not hurt, not bared, not tied to the stone table. "Oh God." Max almost sobbed.

"Some monsters disguise themselves so well you don't realize that they're monsters until it's too late." Max muttered quietly. His hands shook by his side, his grip loosened and he almost dropped the tumbler. He brought the scotch back to his lips and took a soft sip at the golden liquid, eyes frantically searching over the room. The white wash of fear tainted his vision as he remembered the words that Lucian had once muttered. Max's eyes connected with Sherlock's for a second and the younger man gasped at what he saw. Within the cold and hardened eyes of his uncle, he was bared witness to something he had never once observed in humans before. It was something of carnage, rabid as a dog and yet so controlled that he almost doubted what he had seen. Max then twisted around, his back facing Sherlock and glanced back to the portrait.

 

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion, his eyes too fell on the painting of Lucian. "Fear has two meanings: ‘Forget Everything And Run’ or ‘Face Everything And Rise.’ The choice is yours." Max's voice was so soft but held the strength of something so powerful Sherlock almost wept in the face of it. John turned from the windows and his own eyes fell onto Max, he slowly walked towards the man. "Max?" He asked cautiously, his eyes - filled with worry - the gardener glanced to Sherlock as if to pin him to the spot as he walked ever so slightly closer to the older of the three.

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change" Max muttered quietly as he swayed to a silent beat that was not there, his head canted upwards as his eyes were fixed and unblinking as he stared desperately on Lucian's painted form, "Courage to change the things I can," He continued. His voice shook with each syllable. John's eyes flicked back to Sherlock, a deep fear resonated within his chest as he saw how unhinged the larger man seemed. "What's happening?" He asked the brunette, John surged forward and cupped Max's face in his own as he tried to peer into his eyes. Max's pupils were blown wide and his entire form was trembling harshly, lips moving as he quoted silent strings of sonnets to the room.

  
"And the Wisdom to know the difference." Max's grave and trembling voice sounded again. John frowned as he recognised the words That Max muttered. "Is that not the serenity prayer?" The blond man asked. "I have never been a man of God," he muttered before his eyes fell back to Max's swaying form. John released the man's head as he took a step back to be able to throw his glance towards the portrait of Lucian. He couldn't understand why Max couldn't keep his gaze from the picture. But almost as if a bell rung within his mind, echoing and resonating throughout his body, John connected the dots of Max's behaviour. He glanced fom Lucian and to the window. "Oh."

Sherlock frowned at John's exclamation of understanding. His head was clouded with worry and his heart hung low in his stomach as he watched Max continue to sway and John stare at the window. "Have you both gone mad?" He almost shouted as he watched John swish his head to face his lover. Just as John was about to explain, Max's large body jumped into action. The sudden movement startled John and Sherlock as they stepped aside and allowed Max to jumped into action. As Max's heavy footsteps retreated from the room, his voice bellowed through the walls of the mansion. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger!" His feet hammered on the stairs as he raced up the steps and to Sherlock's room. The brunette and blond had remained on the ground floor and glanced towards eachother. John surged forward and captured Sherlock in his arms. "I understand what is happening." John explained softly, without alluding to anything at all. Sherlock frowned at the man. "But John. What about Max?" He asked softly.

A pang of pain pounded through John as he swiped a falling tear from Sherlock's cheek. "Oh love, my darling." He muttered. "He is doing the only thing that he can." John explained. Sherlock's eyes remained panicked and almost full with doubt. He pulled away from John and glared at the man.  
"Doing everything he can? He's a drunkard! What a time to behave as he is doing, especially at this time!" Sherlock roared, John's hand interlaced with Sherlock's own and he pressed a kiss to the knuckles.  
"Oh my love. I shall explain --" Before John was able to say another word, a loud bang startled the two men apart. The glanced to the side and saw that a case had been thrown from the landing, the lid to the case was open and just inside, Sherlock could make out the twinkling of diamond, silver and gold. Within the case lay jewels and treasures.

  
"Take it and disappear unto the woods, dear fellows!" The sound of Max's voice startled them once more as they peered up and to his heaving form. At the sight, Sherlock almost screamed, Max was a mess. Where his hair was normally slicked into place, it was now wild and rampant, where his clothes were usually pressed and well fitting, they were now strewn across his body in such a way that the man looked crazed, like an animal in a heated fury. He then threw Sherlock's coat from the landing also and it came to puddle atop the case. John surged forward, before Sherlock was able and snapped the case shut before, looping the jacket over his arm. He latched his hand into Sherlock's once more and as they fled from the mansion, they heard Max's screams from the balcony. "Take the clothes on your back and flee! There will be a horse tacked in the stable, line her up with a carriage and ride!"

Within his chest, Sherlock's heart ached. He could feel his breaths leaving his lungs in heaves as his throat began to ache with the overexertion. He glanced across the estate and to the iron gates and saw the mob of people banging their bodies into it as they tried to break it down. A puddle of fear clasped at his stomach and for a moment, Sherlock was sure he'd vomit. Both he and John turned away from the mob as they ran to the stable. As Max had said, Lestrade was sat atop the carriage, his hands clasped at the reins of the horse that panted and squealed in fear of the loud noises. "Ge'in!" Lestrade bellowed at them, both Sherlock and John barrelled into the passenger seats of the carriage. The seats were cushioned against them as they pushed inside, they hadn't been able to drag their legs into the carriage before the horse was pulling them at a gallop. John sat bolt right as he pulled Sherlock's body further inside the cart, he then pulled the door shut and turned back to the lump of a man on the floor.

Tears painted Sherlock's cheeks as he glanced up to John from where he lay. His heart had twisted in every way imaginable, he was physically and emotionally exhausted and he hadn't a clue on how to move his numb and heavy limbs. Sherlock trembled where he sat and John sunk to his knees to cuddle the man to his chest. The blond gave soft shushing sounds as they bounced and speeded through the gardens of the estate. Sherlock pressed his face into John's clothed chest as he tried his best to listen to John's loving mutterings, but he couldn't allow all of his attention to fall upon the man as he could still hear Max's wails in the distance.

"I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, and therefore is wing'd cupid painted blind. I scream for you, oh Lucian."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((I have just edited this and made it longer, I hope you enjoy the updated version!))


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are escaping the mess that was the manor, it is now time to see where they will end up.

A particularly harsh bump caused Sherlock to almost slip from the leather seat of the cab and onto the floor, if it hadn't been for John's reflexes, he would have been an undignified clump on the belly of the car. As it were he was a sleepy puddle stretched across the back seat of the cab, his upper body relaxing on John's thighs; his head curled to rest in John's arms. The younger man opened his eyes slowly to catch a glimpse of the blond man above him. From the angle of the sun in the sky and the way that it's rays caressed the earth below, the golden light filtered through the back window of the cab and highlighted John, in an almost angelic way. Sherlock hummed as he conceded, the man that held him was far beyond that of any human, John may well have been the sun himself. 

John's gentle hand pushed Sherlock's matted curls from his forehead, "How are you feeling, love?" He muttered and cuddled the brunette close to his chest. Sherlock sighed and pressed his face into John's hessian shirt and smiled at the rough scratch against his skin.   
"How long have we been in travel?" He asked, avoiding John's question all together.  
John's stern gaze hinted that he wasn't fooled by Sherlock's tactics to change the subject and the clench in his jaw alluded Sherlock into the belief that he would definitely return to the question. John then turned his gaze to the outside and watched as a distant village slowly edged past them as they clattered along the uneven and rickety gravel road. "We have been travelling through the night and it is late morning, so I would say we have been on the road for the past 10 hours." John pursed his lips in thought, the soft stubble of his jaw was illuminated by the light. Sherlock had to physically restrain himself from surging forward to kiss those pouting lips, he wanted to run his teeth along John's jawline and feel the coarse golden hair under his lips. "I think both Lestrade and the horse will need to rest soon. I can take over for a while and we can find somewhere to rest. We all need a day to recover from what's happened. Then we must keep moving." John's words cut through Sherlock's thoughts, the brunette didn't want to be left alone with Lestrade. He wanted to be held by John for the rest of the journey. He didn't think he would manage any more than five minutes without John by his side. He watched in horror as John reached high to clonk his knuckled against the roof of the cab. 

The cab came to a gentle stop and rocked from side to side, as Lestrade clambered from his seat. When he came to the window, the two men saw his face. It looked haggard and darkened with lack of sleep, but the workman gave them both a welcoming smile. Sherlock had to admire both Lestrade's and John's own stamina, for he wouldn't have been able to do half the tasks that either of them were able to do in one single day, let alone throughout the night as well. He felt so feeble in comparison. A vile taste rolled into his mouth as he thought of how useless he actually was. He pushed himself out of John's lap, he had no place seeking comfort from a man that was so much better than himself and in so many ways.

A jolting movement from Sherlock caused John to break his eye contact with Lestrade and give Sherlock a confused glance as the man removed himself from his lap and left his legs exposed to the world, their temperature seemed to drop as Sherlock's warm body heat was removed from them. John ran his hands across his thighs to try and warm as he refocused back to Lestrade. "How are you doing, old boy?" His tone was that of comfort and understanding, Sherlock could have positively hissed with jealousy as he watched John's gentle voice bring a true smile to Greg's lips.  
"Less o' the old, lad." Lestrade teased, his country lilt tilting the very sound of his words. "Ah've been workin' fer a fare few hours. But Ah'm sure, given the time, I could get us all t'the village by..." He reached into his pocket to pull out an old pocket watch, the metal was plain and seemed to be of a dirty golden colour, he flicked the lid and watched the ticking thing for a moment before smiling back to John. "Well, I could get us there for lunch." 

John nodded as he took in the information. "You don't have to take us there, I can take over, if you like. You can get some sleep and then we'll find a place to take shelter for the night before setting off in the morning?" The gardener relayed his plan to Lestrade and saw the appreciative nod.   
"You sure you can 'andle 'er?" He asked with a raised brow and nodding towards the front of the cab, gesturing to the horse. That expression held both humor and a slight challenge to the blond man and John accepted both in his stride. He nodded. "We can catch a break here for a minute before I get us going." John nodded and turned back to Sherlock after Lestrade walked away to pick a spot on the grass to relax upon.

The brunette, in question, had curled in on himself on the opposite side of the passenger seat. John's brows pinched in concern as he reached out a wary hand to touch Sherlock's shoulder. Upon feeling the warmth of John's palm, Sherlock shuddered slightly. Smiling, John spoke. "What's wrong, flower?" The pet name was new and had Sherlock frowning at the sound of it. Flower?... It seemed so intimate to hear it on John's lips and he couldn't keep himself from feeling a warm blast of pleasure in his stomach at the very sound of it. He decided that he rather liked the pet name.

"Hmm?" John asked and slunk to his knees so he could be in front of Sherlock and then catch the man's devastating attention. He loved Sherlock's piercing eyes and his wondrous mind. The man may well have been a God from another time, for he had a body that was of pure marble and the mind of a dictionary, encyclopedia and thesaurus in one. He placed a hand on Sherlock's knee to steady himself and raised an eyebrow in invitation for Sherlock to speak. The younger warily glanced at him from the protective ball his body had formed and shrugged. Sherlock knew very well what was wrong, it was the way that Lestrade was so much greater than himself, his stamina, experiences, the way that he was strong enough to protect John, each point was like a dagger piercing Sherlock's heart. But the worst of them all was the way that John had spoken to him, it had seemed so soft and gentle, it reminded him of the caresses John had gifted him with just the other morning.

"Come on, Sherlock. What's the matter?" John begged, his eyes wide with worry, his brows high on his head as he prepared to listen to what Sherlock had to say. Sherlock's gaze fell on John and roved over his face, each wrinkle on the gardener's features held a flurry of emotion and meaning that Sherlock could not comprehend how such a powerful and sturdy man could be so sensitive in the matters of the heart and emit so much of his own emotion in the mere linings on his face. Sherlock wanted to touch John, to feel - first hand - the depth of the emotion that the other man held. "I -..." He stopped himself and blushed. His eyes reconnected with John and he chided himself for not having the courage to give John what he wanted. Sherlock grit his teeth and gave a solemn sigh. "I am a hindrance." He stated, all of his ill-feelings attached to that one sentence.

John's expression changed dramatically but with only the slightest of movements. Within seconds of Sherlock speaking, he had changed from slightly worried to concerned and confused. "I don't understand, how could you possibly think that you are a hindrance?" Sherlock gave a tired sigh and glanced away from John as he prepared himself to rattle out all of his innermost thoughts.  
"The way you... They way you talk to Lestrade. He is such a kind man, so strong and brave. He is much better suited to you than the likes of me." Sherlock spat out his own pronoun and glared daggers at the leather of the seat beneath him. He knew that John would stand and leave him, thought that after revealing John's true feelings would have to watch as the man abandoned him for the silver-haired man reclined on the grass a mere few meters away.

However, Sherlock hadn't expected John to reach out and lift his chin with his finger and thumb, so Sherlock had no choice but to hold his gaze. The touch startled the brunette and he watched John in wonder. The blond's face had changed yet again to fondness and barely held amusement. Was he laughing at Sherlock?  
"You wonderful man. You are so smart and yet you hold the pre-conceptions of an idiot." He giggled. "I do not harbor feelings of that nature for Lestrade. He is a friend, a dear friend yes, but only a friend." He stated. "But you must know: Sherlock, just because you are not as strong as Lestrade or I or that you are born from a richer heritage. That doesn't make me think any lesser of you. You are wonderful and brilliant. Your mind is far stronger and vastly reaching than I could ever hope to be. You are so strong in your own way and the bravery I see in you is something that I strive for every day of my existence. It is not you who should worry of abandonment and loneliness - it is I." John stated plainly.

Sherlock's eyes watched as John expressed everything he wished to in the simple but effective words. John knew how to manipulate the most basic of words to suit any feeling or meaning that he needed and wanted. The man was so artful and careful that Sherlock wished he was able to express himself in the way John could. Upon hearing the last of John's statement, Sherlock shook his head repeatedly, and muttered the mantra of "No, John, you're wrong." Once John had finished speaking, Sherlock surged forward and planted himself in John's lap as he kissed the gardener's neck and expressed his feelings in actions. "I would never leave you John and you are the bravest human being I have ever encountered. You are my knight, you are my sun to light the sky and you are the gravity that holds me to this Earth." Sherlock cried out into John's ears as he kissed John's stubble-covered jawline over and over.

"Thank you, my love." John chuckled at Sherlock's ministrations and watched as the man showered love onto him. "Do you know why I called you flower?" He asked. Sherlock pulled back shook his head. "No, I don't." John blushed slightly, but held his earth shattering and loving gaze.  
"I call you flower because at the start of it's life it had to search for it's own water and it's own food. A flower has to battle it's way through the darkness before it can finally taste the sweetness of life itself as it breaches the world above ground. It then does something even more miraculous. It grows strong and fast and slowly becomes the most beautiful thing any man has laid eyes upon. It blooms and it's petals unravel to reveal the most prettiest of things, but yet it is so delicate and tender that you could destroy it by the mere touch of your hand." John smiled and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "I am a mere bee that is drunk on your scent, hopelessly attracted to your beauty and I cannot help myself but stay with you. I am so happy when I am with you, Sherlock." He said and when he pulled back, he saw that Sherlock was crying. His cheeks shimmering with moisture.

John frowned in concern yet again and kissed the tears away and held Sherlock closer to his body. "I'm sorry, my love. I am so sorry, I never meant to upset you." The blond rambled in panic. Sherlock however pushed a long and delicate finger to John's lips as he then spoke. "You got it wrong. I am your flower, yes. But John, you are my bee." He smiled and pushed forward to kiss the man's lips tenderly.

A sob of delight left John as the two held each other and kissed until any worries or sadness had been forgotten about. John pulled away and smiled apologetically. "I must wake Lestrade so we may continue our journey." He said plainly and gave Sherlock a final kiss as he pulled away. Sherlock nodded and sat back onto the passenger chair, he wiped his cheeks clean and smiled as Lestrade joined him, and sat on the seat opposite. Sherlock watched from the window as they jerked back into movement. He couldn't shake the smile from his face as he replayed the scene from a moment ago. John was definitely a bee. So strong and powerful, brave and determined, but if you were to take his soft fuzzy exterior and use it against him, he would lash out with a painful sting. Sherlock chuckled at the accuracy. He was John's flower and John was his bee.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, Lestrade and John all find a place to stay the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! The next one will be longer!

"Sherlock." The voice seemed so familiar but yet was consumed by the darkness, a black veil pulled over Sherlock's eyes. A poisonous essence. Viscous, it hung from every syllable of the word uttered by this voice, almost masking them... Did that voice really say Sherlock's name? It had sounded like John's own earthy voice, but considering it, Sherlock was almost certain he had heard this voice somewhere before. He remembered Shakespearean quotes, the words deep and dark as if they held a parallel meaning to their obvious one. The subtext so absolute that it was almost the opposite, like it was a declaration not meant to be taken any way but the most obvious.

"Sherlock."

There it was again. Sherlock could almost hear the desperation, was that because it was closer? Or was it further away. Sherlock couldn't tell, the darkness was still there, however. It still clung to the every letter in the word. But that voice was definitely yelling his name, or was it whispering? The voice gave a final utterance and Sherlock felt like a hand had reached through the dullness, took his own, and lead him from that cold place. He opened his eyes.

Stood above him, worry lining his face, was John. His golden strands seeming almost grey as the clouded sun tried it's best to filter through the low hanging fog of the evening. "John?" Sherlock's voice cracked from not having used it for so long. Sherlock glanced about from where he lay, he could see the light grey sky, smell the putrid stench of horse manure and smoke - they had made it to the nearby village - and he could hear the faintest whispers of music in the background. Sherlock's eyes fell back onto the gardener as John tried to gently maneuver him from the back seat of the carriage. "Come on Sherlock, help me get you out." He did whisper that time. Sherlock latched onto the seat and pushed himself to a sitting position before rolling from the cart and into John's arms. Beside the blond stood Lestrade. Sherlock glanced from side to side and all of his observations were correct, they had made it to the village, a barn was situated behind them and before them was what seemed to be a pub.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked as the three set off in a slow walk towards the entrance to the bar. John smiled and pointed to the squeaking sign that rocked back and forth in the wind. Sherlock glanced up to where it was and read the crudely scrawled letters. "Hooper's Hoppers?" He read aloud. John nodded.  
"Yes, we couldn't make it to that village we originally saw and so we've stopped in this town... Lincoln, was it Greg?" he asked the man.

Lestrade smiled and nodded, "Aye. Lincoln it is, I remember coming here as a boy, down 'ere, not near the cathedral are many a man who're willing to 'elp ya. But once you get t'the top o'that hill. Well, you may as well keep yer trap shut, ain't no bugger gonna help you up there." Lestrade blabbered. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the useless drivel and pushed passed the other two men. He had been cooped up inside the carriage for too long, he needed something to occupy his mind other than the sounds of the carriage. He pushed open the door and stood in the entrance.

He had thought that he could deduce the people inside and rid his mind of the overwhelming boredom, but once faced with it, he remembered his state of dress. A blush overcome Sherlock as he froze on the spot. Eyes from every corner of the room seemed to turn and settle on him - he remembered what had happened before, before John and Max. He remembered why he was sent away from his first home, away from his brother and parents. He remembered the pain, the hatred. He realised just how poorly his clothes looked and couldn't hide his fear of being attacked for his ill-state of dress.

He was obviously from an upper class background, but his clothes were so out of sorts from the panicked way in which they had escaped Max's estate. The fact that they hadn't left the confines of the carriage for fourteen hours except when they had to relieve themselves. Just as Sherlock began to back out of the situation, he felt John's sturdy and strong hand come up and touch him on his lower back. He could do this. If John was here, no matter how much these people bullied him, he would be able to get through it. He let out a relieved breath and allowed Lestrade and John to take the lead this time as they walked towards the bartender.

"We were told to ask for a Hooper?" John muttered as he reached the bar and caught the attention of the tender, "That there was a young lass who worked the bar? We were told she could provide food and lodgings for a night?" John's calm and relaxed voice chimed through the flurry of people who filled the place with their clutter-some noises. The bar tender pulled a dusty glass from beneath the bar and gave it wipe with a dirty cloth before filling it with ale from the large barrel behind him. He then turned and slammed it down on the bar. "That'd be Miss Molly Hooper yer askin' fer?" His whiskered face moved with his growling voice. John nodded with a smile.  
"Yes, I believe that is the lady's name."  
"Well yer clean outta luck!" The man spat with a dark chuckle. "She's just left fer America. Did ya 'ear? The gov'ment be payin' people to move out there. As long as you're goin' t'the west." The bar man explained. John frowned and placed his elbow firmly on the bar, making his place known.  
"That is very nice, sir, but I think what I asked for was a place to stay and some food. Can anyone provide them?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

The man pulled back and gave a pinched smile with a flicking of his head as he nodded. "Aye. But all my rooms are taken, the barn, however, is free." He said and glanced at Sherlock, "I'm not too sure that it'd be suited to yer toff though."

John glanced back at Sherlock, the younger man wished he could sink into the floor. He tried to hide his face by glancing to the ground, but found that he couldn't stop himself from glancing to John. The brunette could almost see the anger and irritation dance beneath John's skin, he obviously wanted to defend Sherlock with either a scolding sentence or an equally painful flurry of fists. But after remembering that they were basically at the mercy of this man, John took in a deep breath to try and calm himself before returning his glance back at the barman, his eyes twinkling with danger and threat. "No, I think he'll manage." He muttered with a pinched smile.

The bar tender chuckled mockingly at that. "You seem almost as rabid as a dog!" He jokingly patted John's shoulder, "It's as if you were gonna defend a lady!" The man winked at John and gave them a key to the barn "It can lock on the inside. It'll only be you three, I have the spare one." The man explained before handing over the key. "Now, what would you all like to eat?" The man took their orders and told them to take a seat on one of the many wooden tables. The three did as they were told, John taking the chair closest to Sherlock, his hand falling to rest on the other's knee protectively. Where their bodies joined was hidden under the table, where no one else would have seen John's hand resting on Sherlock's knee as if it was designed to be there. The blond glanced at the man and saw how uncomfortable he seemed. John smiled softly and ran his thumb over Sherlock's knee to catch the man's attention. He leaned close to Sherlock, "It's gonna be okay." He whispered comfortingly and Sherlock believed him.


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Lestrade.

Sherlock clung to John's arm, as they walked from the bar and to the barn. The man's body heat was enough to warm Sherlock's skeletal frame, as his own temperature had plummeted upon being engulfed by the evening's chill. His loosely laced boots almost slipping from his long slender feet. With each step the shoes were thrusted into the squelching mud and the viscous bog clung to them. Sherlock's legs tensed as they tried to force the appendages to break free from the goop, along with said boots. 

As they came closer to the large barn, Sherlock cast his eyes over the mass. In the darkness of the night it was but a hulking silhouette. The shadows that it cast seemed ominous and all consuming, he was so transfixed by the image before him that he jumped when something tickled his skin. On the back of Sherlock's hand, he felt a soft brush of warm and calloused skin against him. He glanced at the contact and found that John had tapped him to gain his attention. "Stay here, love." He muttered to Sherlock. The blond worked his arm from Sherlock's iron grip as he joined Greg by the sliding door of the barn. Together they gripped the wooden handle and slid it open.

It was as if the door didn't want to be worked open, as if the rung of the frame was lined with up-turned splinters that would catch the sliding door and hold it. But the two strong men, bared their teeth as they forced it to comply with their wishes. Making a gap big enough for one man to slide through, Sherlock noticed John was glancing at the floor, he couldn't see the man's face and at first he had thought that the gardener had dropped something. Sherlock scowered the floor at John's feet and saw him then reach for something - but it wasn't something he would have dropped.

In the blond's hand, he held a rock, a large lump of stone that obviously weighed a bit. He saw how John's muscles strained, even in the dark of the night he could make out the thick bunching muscles in John's arms as they curled and coiled under his skin. Sherlock felt heat flush his face and something otherworldly happen in the front of his trousers. He gave a quick cough and focused on the freezing night air, begging for his body to comply to his wishes.

John then placed the rock down in the way of the door, wedging it open. He reached a hand out to Sherlock. "Come on." He muttered and guided Sherlock into the barn. Once shielded from the outside air, Sherlock could truly feel the cold moisture lingering in the barn's atmosphere. He clasped his arms around himself in a bid to conserve as much heat as possible. "Here you go." John muttered and then Sherlock felt a warmth surrounding him. At first he had thought that John had truly engulfed him in an embrace big enough to cover his entire upper body. The scent of faint musky sweat, dirt and something strangely John clamped around his throat and for a second, Sherlock was sure that he wouldn't be able to breath. But then he did. He breathed when he saw John move from behind him. He moved and left the heat on Sherlock. But how? Surely the man wasn't that magnificent that he would be able to split himself into two. If he could, Sherlock was sure that he would die. Having one John was enough to drive him to insanity with lust and passion - or was it love? - He then noticed John's bare arms, he was only wearing his hessian shirt. John had stripped himself of his jacket and draped it over Sherlock's shoulders.

"Where're we t'sleep?" Greg muttered. John chuckled at his friend's exasperated voice. "Are we t'kip among the bloody rats?!" The silver-haired man exclaimed as he kicked at the strands of golden straw that lined the floor. In the back of the barn, Greg's voice was punctuated by their horse's snort. Sherlock hadn't noticed anyone untack the horse let alone take the animal into the barn. He clambered through and to the creature. It's brown eyes almost glowing as the moonlight shone through small cracks in the roof. He held out a shaking hand and allowed the horse to press it's muzzle to his palm. The ebony fur soft as velvet as it caressed his sensitive skin.

"I would think there'll be some rugs or blankets folded on a hay-bell over there." John pointed to the large bricks of hay piled to make a large hill of golden strands. John's eyes never followed his pointing finger, but remained focused on the younger man who continued to pet the horse. The blond felt a fond smile curl around his lips as he walked closer to the man.

Once stood behind Sherlock, he wove his arms around the other's thin waist. Grinning and kissing the nape of the brunette's neck. "How are you feeling? I haven't meant to neglect you all this time. But, since the escape, I've had to focus on our safety." His voice. God, Sherlock was always left in awe at his voice. It could change like a spectrum, from hot to cold, black to white and it could convey each delicious step between. Only an hour ago had John's voice held a growling threat, but now all traces of gruffness was gone. All Sherlock could hear was the silky and almost treacle-like sweetness of it. The brunette leant back against the blond's chest. He felt the soft but hard flesh cushion against him as he fought off the urge wriggled against John's lean body.  
"I completely understand." He uttered, in his own dark and velvet-like drawl. He smirked when a shudder ran through John's strong form, for Sherlock had ensured that his words were but a baritone, as he punctuated them with vibrating sounds. John would have felt every letter thrum against the front of him and could still, probably, feel them reverberating around his body in delightful little tingles. Lips caressed the skin just below Sherlock's ear as John whispered again.  
"But how are you, my love?"

Sherlock sighed and turned in John's arms, lining his front up to the other's and gazed down into those deep blue eyes. "Scared. Frightened." His voice almost broke and he had to hide his face in the crook of John's neck - he couldn't allow his lover to see the tears brimming at his eyes, but that didn't stop John from feeling a warm wetness soak the juncture of his shoulder. Warm and thick hands stroked across Sherlock's spine as it quivered with every held back sob.  
"I promise you, nothing will hurt you. They may chase us, threaten us. But they will never hurt you, never." He said, voice stern and hard. "Do you hear me?" He pushed Sherlock back slightly and gripped the man's chin gently as he forced their eyes to connect again.

Sherlock gave a nod. And the two fell into a hug again. John slowly rocking the man from side to side, trying with all he might to hush the trembling man. As they swayed, they turned and John caught a glimpse of Lestrade from over Sherlock's shoulder. The man had laid out blankets and made a makeshift mattress from the bales of hay. But stood above them, Greg watched the two men with a look of shock and John couldn't tell if it was disgust or confusion lining the silver haired man's face. To be sure, John's eyes became piercing and he glared daggers at the man from across the barn, silencing him before he had the chance to brew his questions.

"Lestrade has made us all a bed. I don't know about you, but I'm absolutely exhausted." John muttered, not breaking eye contact with Lestrade. "Come lay down. Me and Greg are going to shut the door." John instructed as he laid Sherlock into the bed, covering his body with a thick horse blanket. 

Both John and Lestrade left Sherlock. They stepped from the barn and removed the rock, allowing the door to shut. John carried on walking around the barn and to the very back where he then rounded on the silver-haired Greg. Lestrade backed away when he saw the smaller man, like a wolf, John was poised for battle. He was ready to fight, ready to defend and Lestrade was sure that although he had an advantage of height, he wouldn't leave the scrum as a healthy man.

"What are your thoughts?" John hissed.  
Lestrade glanced at the trees in the distance and then back to John. As they breathed, billows of steam escaped their mouths and noses. "What're me thoughts, ya say? Well... Ah've been serving the likes of Mister Holmes - Max - for years! Ah've no problem with ya canoodles with t'other Holmes. Jus'know Ah'll be wi'ya, when shit hit's Ah'll be here!" John nodded with a happy snuff before tapping Lestrade's shoulder. He then silently left the man in the night to join his lover in the barn.  
"Thank you! Feel free to come back into the barn!" John's warmer tone pushed a fond smile to grace Lestrade's face.  
Sherlock and John, they were not alone. Never alone.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the three men awake from their night in the barn?

Through the thick curtains of slumber, the soft and welcome scent of tea flitted through and tickled Sherlock's nostrils. The man's eyes fluttered open, he glanced about the barn as if he had forgotten where he was. "Max?" He called out experimentally but was greeted instead with John's warm tone. "No, love. It's John." The hazelnut warmth so familiar and calming that Sherlock settled into them, as if they were velvet strands being rubbed against his pale form. Sherlock's silver eyes held John's gaze and he pushed up to press his lips to the blond man's in greeting. When he pulled away, his cheeks were a soft pink. "I'm sorry." He muttered, only then realising that John might not want to be kissed.

John chuckled and leant down to kiss him again. "Well, good morning." He muttered in a sultry tone. "I brought you tea." He held up the mug, steaming in the cold of the morning. Sherlock wrapped his stiff and chilled hands around the mug and couldn't help the moan of pleasure as he felt the flesh beneath his skin warming with the hot brew. John settled beside the man and wrapped a thick arm around his lover. Sherlock leant into the firm body, resting his head against John's shoulder as he sipped at his tea.

Just as the two began to relax together, a patting could be heard at the door. At first they ignored the sound, but the patting turned into a hard knocking. John stood from where he was wrapped around Sherlock and ensured that he stood between the man and whatever their intruder might be. "Come in." He ordered and the two watched as the door slid open and revealed an old woman, her salt and pepper grey hair tied back in a ribbon, her eyes twinkled with her age and wisdom and her wrinkled body was wrapped in a wool dress. John scowled at the woman, "Hello." He muttered a strained greeting. In reply she merely nodded and smiled at him.  
"Good morning." Her voice was trilling and delicate, but that didn't fool John, he remained on high alert for she could still pose a threat to Sherlock, and he couldn't - wouldn't - allow that.  
"Who're you?"

The woman smiled and closed the door behind her before stepping a little closer. "My name is Mrs Turner." She stated, as if the name was supposed to mean something to Sherlock or John.  
"Is that supposed to be a well known name? For I cannot recall it." The woman tittered before shaking her head.  
"I don't believe that you would, I am the grandmother of Miss Hooper. She used to be the landlady of the bar." Mrs Turner explained. John's eyes flitted behind her, as if he could see the bar through the barn door. His crystal blue gaze fell back onto the woman.  
"Didn't she flee to America?" He asked and the woman nodded in response.  
"Oh yes, she did."

John heaved a restless breath. "I apologize, but I don't see the purpose of you interrupting our morning." He explained through gritted teeth.  
"Homosexuals." The woman stated simply.  
John's eyes widened and he glanced back to Sherlock before growling at the woman. "Excuse me?" He muttered.  
"Homosexuals. My granddaughter used to admit homosexuals in her rooms, she would provide them with lodgings and food. But the others found out about her business and she was forced to flee the town." The woman explained, her eyes misty with the memory of her granddaughter. "Ever since my son-in-law took over as the landlord, I haven't seen one homosexual. Except for you two." John frowned at that, Sherlock had stood by now, still cradling his tea in his lithe hands as he came to stand beside John.  
"Is this a threat?" He asked the woman but she shook her head quickly.  
"A warning. It isn't safe."  
"What isn't safe?" John asked.  
"They know." Sherlock's deep baritone cut through the quiet and at that Greg pulled the barn door open and stood beside the woman, eyeing her in confusion before connecting his gaze with Sherlock and John. Both the woman and John himself glanced at Sherlock with questioning gazes.

"It's plain to see that this woman is not against homosexuals, in fact she misses their company. She has come to help," Sherlock explained.  
"How could you know that, young man?" The older woman asked.  
"Well, you miss your granddaughter terribly, by the way that you remember her so fondly, this tells me that you either liked your daughter but didn't like her work or you liked your daughter and supported her work. It is the latter. I mean, why would you be here now if it were to be the former?" Sherlock explained.

The woman chuckled. "Oh you are quick as a whippet!" She exclaimed. "But yes, I have come to help. The men have found out about you both and have formed a plan to invade the barn and take you both to the police!" She exclaimed. "And If I didn't respect my granddaughter, I'd let them. But as it is, I am - as you say - fond of you. So please, allow me to grant you use of a bale of hay and a barrel of meed. You will certainly need them for your journey."

John frowned and interjected at that. "I'm sorry, what journey?" He asked.  
"America! There is a night boat, not too far from here, if you are to set off soon you can make it. Please take my advice and leave for America. The government are paying people to move out and there should be a governing official there. If you were to give him these, then you can be entitled to the money." She handed them both newspaper clippings. John took them and nodded thanking her for her troubles.  
"Oh, no, please. It is the least I can do." She waved him off. "But please do hurry! I'm not sure how much time you might have." She explained. "I can hold the men in the bar off for a few moments, but you must be quick." She nodded and gave them all a nod of luck before exiting the barn and scurrying into the bar. John glanced down at the clippings and smiled softly. It was the third time someone had been supportive of their relationship. But with each new person that showed their support, he still felt a soft pang of pain as he remembered the first. Their dear Max.

"Ah will 'elp wi'the loading o'the carriage, an' Ah'll see ya'both off on th'boat. But, Ah shall not be sailin' wi'ya both." Greg's voice cut through John's thoughts. The blond glanced towards the silver haired man. "Why, Greg?" He asked. The man shrugged softly.  
"Ah signed a contract wi'a great man, Ah've done 'is biddin' an'now Ah wish t'see if he survived." Of course both John and Sherlock knew he was talking about Max. Sherlock moved forward and shook Greg's hand.  
"Thank you." Sherlock muttered.  
John smiled at the man. "Yes. Thank you." He stated. "You're a great man Greg and we wouldn't have made it without you." Greg grinned and tapped John's shoulder in comradery. "Than'you! Ah've enjoyed bein' on th'road wi'you fellas an'now it's tha'time for me t'part ways wi'ya." He smiled. "Let's get tha'bloody carriage ready, lad." He nodded to John and both men broke out into a chuckle.

******

It hadn't taken John and Lestrade long to tie the bale of hay and the barrel of mead to the roof of the carriage. Sherlock had offered his help, but the two told him that he should rest and take refuge in the carriage, just in case one of the town folk tried to attack them. Sherlock had remained inside the carriage throughout the journey and watched the scenery changed from urban to rural and then back again. He sighed at the repetitive images and sat further back in his seat, his stomach growling in protest to the lack of food and his hands cradling a mug of mead. The three men had been on the road for hours, Lestrade and John had taken it in turns to drive the carriage, all the while Sherlock kept offering his services to them but was denied each time. After being turned down for the last time, the brunette resigned to a deep sulk of embarrassment.

It wasn't until they slowed did Sherlock break out of his boredom induced stupor. He could see all types of people rushing in mobs through lice checks, the richer people being helped onto the boat, whilst the poorer people pushing as one continuous line into the boat and over the gangplank. The carriage filtered through the mobs and came to a stop in front of a boarding officer. The carriage rocked as John clambered from the drivers seat and dropped to his feet to open the door for Sherlock.

Having the time of the journey to fix up his hair and clothing, Sherlock emerged a more well-put together man. His clothes were dirty and he smelt faintly of body odor, but he would have certainly passed for an upper-middle class man. "May I 'elp you sir?" the boarding officer asked in his Liverpudlian accent. Sherlock knew that neither John nor himself had tickets for the ship, to his knowledge, all they had were the newspaper clippings Mrs Turner had given them.

Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened himself to his full height and glanced down his aristocratic nose at the man. "Me and my valet are in need of a cabin as we are taking the trip to America." He sniffed, he remembered how his father had spoken to people of a 'lower' class than himself and tried to replicate it as he spoke to this man.  
"Well, we can't allow ya on wi'out a ticket." The man stated.  
Sherlock frowned and dug in his own pockets as he felt for some form of identification. In the front right pocket, he felt a folded paper, pulling it out, he found that it was Max's own identification. It seemed that the man had been invited to America, being one of the few that had been invited by the government with the promise of a hefty payment. Sherlock fought back the grin as he remembered Max throwing the jacket from the first floor of his mansion, neither John or Sherlock had checked the pockets before taking the jacket and case with them. It appeared that both John and himself owed Max for more than they knew, he smiled at the officer and handed the paper to the him. "If you need any more proof, I will ask my valet to provide his own identification." He bluffed, knowing that John had no form of identification with him.

After reading through the paper Sherlock had provided, the man shook his head with widened eyes. "Oh, no, Mr Holmes. We will ensure that you get your payment right away." The laxed accent the man had once presented seemed to have been suddenly polished into a more refined tone. "We have suitable evidence." He glanced behind Sherlock and to the two men. "But which is your vallet?" He asked. Sherlock glanced behind himself and saw both John and Lestrade. "John." He called and the blond stood beside him.  
"Aye, sir?" John slanted his words with a slight Scottish lilt, trying to make his role as Sherlock's valet more authentic.  
"This is my valet." Sherlock smiled at the boarding officer. Said officer nodded in understanding.  
"Will you like two rooms then, sir?" He asked, Sherlock frowned and shook his head.  
"I like my valet to be close by. You can never be too sure, can you?" He chuckled. "I should think we will only need one room."  
"Yes sir," The man replied hastily but frowned in anxiety, "But you do realize that this is a merchant ship, sir?" The officer asked, a slight twitch in his brow.  
"How does this affect me?" Sherlock twisted his lip in boredom.  
"Well, even the first class guests will be staying in small cabins. They are not built for gentlemen and their... valets... but are for one man per room." The officer explained, his eyes jumping from Sherlock and to John.

Sherlock shrugged and smiled down at the man. "Well, I like John to be nearby. I assume that there will be a table and chair provided?" He asked.  
"Well yes sir, but..." Before he could finish protesting against Sherlock, the brunette had already held his hand up.  
"My decision in made." He stated sternly.  
"Yes sir." The officer bowed. "I'll make sure that your money is delivered to you whilst on board sir." The man explained and left them to make their way to the ship.

Left alone in the mob of people, Sherlock glanced to John and smiled. John grinned in return and restrained himself from pressing a kiss to the smiling lips above him, instead he reached into the cart and took the case full with jewelry from it. As he did so, both men turned to face the silver-haired Lestrade. "Ah guess tha'this is where Ah bid ya'both a goodbye." Lestrade gave a sad smile, pushing awkwardly onto his tiptoes before falling back onto his heels. His lips curled into a soft guilty smile as he reached out a hand. Both Sherlock and John returned the sad pull of lips.  
"When you return to the estate, please write to us." John muttered and as he shook Greg's hand and touched his elbow in a bid of kindness. Lestrade nodded in reply, his eyes softening as he gazed upon the shorter blond man. He then turned to Sherlock and smiled.  
"It's been a pleasure workin' wi'ya young master." His graveled voice was much softer than when he had first met Sherlock, it had felt like years ago when he first greeted Lestrade at the train station, but alas it was only a months space between then and now. "Yer a man if I ever seen one. Ah remember collectin' ya from th'station. Ya've really grown int'a gentleman." Lestrade complimented. He then winked at the other. "Look after our John." He playfully slapped Sherlock's shoulder before turning and clambering onto the carriage.  
"Farewell!" He shouted and set the cart into a reverse and then drove it through and out of the crowding mob.

Watching the man leaving them both, set a strange emptiness in Sherlock's chest. Although he had never been able to grow familiar with Lestrade, he still felt as if a dear friend was being ripped from his life. The void growing in his heart had just doubled with not only the loss of Max but also of Lestrade. Just as a fog of melancholy began to settle in his mind, he felt the grounding warmth of John's thick and small hand on his lower back. Sherlock glanced to his side and gave the man a smile. "Let's get going." John muttered and waited for Sherlock to turn with him towards the ship.

Unable to walk arm in arm or hand in hand, Sherlock and John settled for walking side by side until they began climbing the gangway. The steps were so narrow that the two men had to walk side by side before being welcomed onto the ship, where they were directed to their cabin below deck, number 6. The ship was a well-kept one, the wooden planks gleaming with wax and polish, Sherlock and John's boots clipped against it as they filtered down the corridor. They glanced over the doors until they found their own, having been given the number 6, they scanned the center of the wooden doors for the brass numbers. Finally finding the sixth brass number, John opened the door for the younger. Sherlock smiled at the blond as he walked through and past the threshold of their cabin.

The room was a small and narrow space, a single bed pushed up against the left wall and a desk to the opposite one. Sherlock glanced at John and they both sat upon the bed. John's blue eyes ran over the younger man's body. "What's wrong love?" He asked. Sherlock sighed in response and leant against him.  
"I feel as though everyone is disappearing from my life. I'm scared that you will too." John gave a soft chuckle and squeezed the younger man close to himself. "Oh love." He muttered. "I am not going anywhere, flower." He told Sherlock, but smiled softly. "Dinner is at six, we have three hours until then. How about I show you just how much I want to stay with you?" John suggested with a filthy grin.

Sherlock blushed at the thought of what John was implying. "You're a bad man, John." He chuckled.  
"Oh no. I'm a buzzing bee looking to pollinate my flower." He winked, John pulled himself so he was knelt above Sherlock, he then crawled across the bed like a predator stalking it's prey. Sherlock's eyes were locked on John's, a high and deep blush painted his cheeks as John grew nearer. A nervous titter left Sherlock's mouth as he felt John's looming presence crawl closer to his body. The closer John got, the more Sherlock was forced to lay down, until John was completely atop his lover. John's strong thighs straddled Sherlock's much smaller hips and his thick arms stood like pillars on either side of Sherlock's head. The younger couldn't help the blushing grin he presented to the ravenous blond man. Glittering blue eyes roved across Sherlock's pale body, he felt like the heat in John's gaze was slowly extricating each item of Sherlock's clothing, but he remained fully covered, much to John's chagrin. "Oh look at this gorgeous flower, so close to blooming. Shall I help him?" John crooned in Sherlock's ear, his voice a warm honey suckle. Sherlock's breaths were leaving him in pants as he nodded, John grinned - it was as if he had just won the greatest prize. "Well we want to see a flower's inner beauty, yes? Let's take off the outer leaves." John's flirtatious tone drew a giggle from Sherlock as he began to unbutton Sherlock's cotton shirt and then began to work on the brunette's trousers, gently pulling the items of clothing from the man, who remained laying on the bed. Once bare and spread across the small bed, John couldn't help himself as he ran his soft stare along the panes of Sherlock's skin, his blue eyes caught on the prominent bones of Sherlock's milky body, his eyes then locked on those pink little buds of Sherlock's nipples. He licked his lips, gaze turning hungry. "Oh you pretty little thing." He muttered, just as he was about to clamber onto the bed, a knocking sounded on the door. Both men glanced frantically to the door in horror.


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught in the act?

John glanced from Sherlock and to the door, if it was possible, Sherlock's pale flesh whitened with fear. "John." He hissed, and glanced about himself, searching for something to hide his nudity. John pulled the sheet from the bed and draped it across the man. The blond then glanced back to the door, he nibbled at his lower lip in thought before reaching towards the handle. He cast a glance back to Sherlock with a worried gaze before cracking the door open and peering through the gap. 

Stood a few feet from the door was a man, his uniform freshly washed and pressed, the badges and symbols on the clothing signified the Royal Navy. John gave a swallow and smiled at the man, keeping the door but a hairs width open. "How can I help you?" John muttered quietly. The man stood straighter and pushed his shoulders back, his chin high.   
"I've been instructed to check if Mister M Holmes is comfortable. May I speak with him?" The man's voice was a deep tone, very clipped and resonated with an air of confidence. John swallowed nervously before shaking his head.  
"No, I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, but my master is asleep, he ordered me to stay by his side while he slept, you see." John explained, he had to work hard to keep his tone from wavering in, his stomach twisted in anxiety and his heart was galloping in his chest, painting a tattoo into his rib cage. After a moment of pregnant silence, the officer tried to peer around the door. "Oh no, sir, my master is an incredibly private man." John warned.

The officer's grey and dull eyes held John's, a sneer of disbelief left the other's lips as he glanced the length of John, seemingly searching for any signs of a lie. "Then, why would your master allow for you to remain by his side as he sleeps. Are you not his valet?" The man asked. The blond glanced to the floor as he tried to formulate a quick response.  
"I have medical training, my master suffers with a sleep illness that affects his breathing. I am to be near him at most times in the unfortunate case that my master will lapse into such illness." John explained.

Stood at the other side of the door, the naval officer straightened his blue coat and combed his fingers through his greased hair. "Very well." The man stated, obviously uncomfortable in delivering any news to a man that was not 'Mister M Holmes'. The officer tightened his lips as he prepared to speak. "I have been instructed to tell, Mister Holmes, that his money will be arriving very shortly, it should be delivered by breakfast tomorrow." 

John nodded at this information and smiled at the man. "Thank you very much. Is that all sir?" He asked politely, the officer - just as he was shifting his weight to turn away - glanced at John suspiciously. They remained still and silent, judging one another, before the officer nodded tightly and bid John a good evening before marching away and deeper into the corridor. 

Hands shaking with the fear of almost being caught, adrenaline coursing through John's body, he closed the door quietly, turned to face into the room and leant back against the door. He heaved a sigh of relief, his brow coated in a thin line of sweat, his eyes then fell back to Sherlock's form hiding beneath the blanket he had haphazardly thrown upon him. The brunette peered from beneath the sheets, his silver eyes wide and innocent, curls unruly and mussed from moving beneath the sheet. John couldn't help but throw his head back in a guffaw. "You look akin to a child." He sprouted between fits of laughter. Sherlock pouted at that reaction, eyes hardened and scowling at his lover. He then pulled the blanket closer to himself. "Well, you won't be allowed to... How did you say?... Pollinate me." Sherlock muttered with an air of amusement at John's change in expression. The once chortling man now quiet, brows pinched with horror at not seeing Sherlock nude before him.

He threw himself to his knees by the side of the bed, gripping one of Sherlock's long and delicate hands in both of his own. "Oh my dear." He muttered. "What is a bee to do than not to suckle on your..." His eyes fell to Sherlock's body, eyes once again hungry as he growled the next word - "Honey..." His eyes flew back to Sherlock's face and he reveled in the sight that he was met with. A rose tinted pair of cheeks, twinkling wide innocent eyes, a slightly parted full mouth and with the heat of the conversation, the sheet had dropped slightly and revealed Sherlock's pink-flushed chest. John licked his lips, starving for what he saw. 

"W-Well a bee must... Err... Well a Bee must learn to live without my --" Sherlock swallowed heavily. "Honey." His voice had risen an octave as his body began to heat with arousal. John grinned at the change in Sherlock's voice, he wished he could hear Sherlock be taken apart piece by piece with each shaking syllable the man had to give.  
"Oh well, a bee would then die. How could I ever wish to survive without your honey. My dearest flower, please be more forgiving, I beg you." John felt his reserve slipping as a smile twitched at his lips.

Sherlock nibbled at his lip in a display of lust before nodding. "In that case, I concede. You may pollinate me." He all but whispered in response to John. The blond grinned in triumph, his dazzling smile enough to strike another shock of arousal through Sherlock. The brunette gasped at the feel of it and watched as John's firm and strong hand reached up to take the hem of the sheet, he then slowly pulled the blanket from Sherlock's body and revealed inch after inch of milky white and pale skin. Sherlock's breathing quickened as he was completely uncovered to John's bright eyes.

"You're so gorgeous." John admired almost breathlessly as he clambered back onto the bed, his legs again either side of Sherlock's hips, except he crawled down the length of Sherlock's body, hands gently caressing the soft skin, his fingers ran over Sherlock's chest, deliberately tickled Sherlock nipples before following the curve of his waist and hips, he then avoided Sherlock's crotch as he ran his hands over the supple flesh of Sherlock's thin thighs, over the trembling knees and then finally came to clasp around Sherlock's dainty ankles. "So gorgeous." John repeated. 

He kept his eyes connected with Sherlock's as he lowered his head to kiss the arch of Sherlock's sole. He kissed the skin of the bottom of the brunette's feet, thin lips then moved past the ball of Sherlock's long foot and he placed a kiss on each toe before then working his kissing and licking mouth along Sherlock's legs. Above him, Sherlock was gasping out shaking breaths, he felt the soft and gentle press of his lover's lips on his skin. The feather light touches sensitized the rest of Sherlock's body as he felt the nerves dancing in delight upon receiving John's undivided attentions. "Oh my love." Sherlock heard John gasp as he worked closer to the interested organ between his legs. Sherlock's prick stood high as he felt John's warm breath on the skin just beside the base of his cock. "Oh god." Sherlock whimpered as John clasped him in his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the very tip of Sherlock's prick.

Sherlock's legs began shivering with the showered attention as John worked higher on his thin body, worshiping each section of skin, showing his love with each gentle kiss as he placed one after another against Sherlock's body. He licked against Sherlock's nipples and nipped at the buds lightly before leaving them in favor of travelling further up Sherlock's body, to his neck, jaw and then finally he was laying astride Sherlock's body, their eyes connected with one another, although Sherlock's were mere glittering slits as he watched John move in for a gentle and loving kiss. 

"What do you want me to do?" John asked, his voice breathless and his eyes flicking across Sherlock's face. "What do you want me to do to you, my gorgeous flower, my rose." John asked. "You're my beautiful rose, so delicate and full with color, but so strong and if held the wrong way, dangerous. You are my rose among the daisies." John mumbled.

Sherlock gasped and whimpered. "Oh my... I would like it if you could bed me... Bed me like you would a lady." Sherlock gasped. John grinned and nodded.  
"There are ways for us to do this, my love. Are you very sure?" John asked. "Would you not like it if we did that when we are finally safe? When we are free to be together?"  
Sherlock's eyes flew to meet John's, the sentiments of what his lover was suggesting was enough to bring the man to a whimpering desperation. "Yes!" He moaned. "I want that. But please John. Please." Sherlock whined. 

John grinned at this and nodded. "Do not worry my sweet, my flower, my rose. Do not worry." John whispered as he slowly crawled further down Sherlock's body. He then tapped at Sherlock's thigh, the brunette spread them and revealed what had not been revealed before. John licked his lips as he saw Sherlock's puckered hole. He grinned and slowly lowered his face between Sherlock's legs.

The brunette gasped as he saw John's face disappear, he waited for a sensation. A tingling wet swipe of a tongue forced Sherlock to throw his head back in a groan and whimper of pleasure. John lapped broadly at Sherlock's hole, the feel was so exquisite that the younger man couldn't help the desperate whimpers that emerged from his mouth. He moved his hands across his own body, one pinching and twisting a nipple gently and the other reaching for his cock. John reached his own hand up and before Sherlock could touch his own prick, John had pinned his hand beside his hip as he continued his ministrations on Sherlock's body.

Trembling and quaking under the attentions, Sherlock's orgasm began to coil and tingle throughout his abdomen as John continued to pleasure him. "Oh!" Sherlock whimpered as John's own hand came up to stroke Sherlock's long and thin cock. The organ had been so warm, burning hot, it felt so sensitive but so hungry as it craved John's touch - which the blond had finally given. Sherlock whined at the feeling, the cooling and otherworldly touch of John's hand on his cock was enough to send Sherlock in a convulsing, rutting and squirming mess. A soft sheen of sweat painted Sherlock's body as he pushed his arse down on John's mouth and his cock into the tight grip of John's hand.   
"Oh! Oh!, I'm gonna... Gonna! Oh John!" Sherlock shouted as his cock thickened and began spurting out stings upon strings of come. The white ribbons settled on the other's stomach. 

Sherlock had seen sparks as the tingling shards of orgasm clasped his body and shot it's tendrils through him, blanking his mind and body. John stroked him through his orgasm until the pangs of over-sensitivity wrought Sherlock into twitching out of John's grip. The blond let go and pulled himself back and up to Sherlock's face as he drew the man into a sensual kiss, their tongues dancing with one another as they fought for dominance - John's won.

Once they pulled away Sherlock gasped out a thank you before he brought a trembling hand to John's strong bicep. "I want to..." He muttered. "I want to help you." Sherlock whimpered. "M-May I?" He begged. John growled at the thought and nodded.  
"Oh god, yes!"


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leading on from the last chapter... Smutty smut smut!
> 
> I've made edits to the chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me until now! I am thrilled when I see more kudos and even happier when I see someone has commented! It's always really nice to receive feedback and I wanted to say thank you to everyone who comments, especially Cure! I'd like to give a special thanks to your consecutive comments! They really are a motivational booster :D
> 
> I am thinking of making edits to the current chapters before posting another one, so please keep checking back and let me know what you think to my changes :D

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as John pulled himself away from his prone and naked body. The brunette's silvery eyes raked over John's firm and strong frame. A smirk tugged at the corners of the blond's mouth as he sat on his haunches. John's strong and capable hands reached to his own shirt and with each pop of the button, Sherlock's own pale hands flew to his tanned chest. Each time Sherlock saw the man undress, he was faced with the same awe and astonishment that he had held the very first time he laid eyes upon the sun-kissed man before him. Sherlock's chest was always cracked open with the weight of his adoration for the other man, his heart thumped against his ribcage and his eyes roved across John's skin. He gaged every shining silver scar, each glittering patch of golden hair and Sherlock could barely restrain himself from surging forward to lap at the salty sweat that lingered at the centre of John's chest. He longed to brush his face against it - smell the very essence that was John Watson. Sherlock, of course, always had his favourite parts of John, places where if he were to press his nose into, he would be bathed in the man's scent and when he dared to lick at the skin there, he would be blessed with that ever deepening and consuming taste of the man himself. Oh, how Sherlock loved these places, his eyes flitted to each of the ones he had discovered the crease of his elbow, the crook of his neck, the very center of John's hardened washboard stomach. Sherlock's eyes fell on that almost white puckered skin at his shoulder, the brunette could barely keep himself from surging forward to trace his tongue across the crinkled flesh. The pink-white of the scar gleamed in the light and the Sherlock was cast back to the memory of when he'd asked about it.

***

"Where did you get this?" His voice was dulled as Sherlock allowed himself to settle further into the dreamy post-coital haze. His long violinist fingers gently trailed his over John's scar. A spike of curiosity hit Sherlock as he felt the soft roll of the tightened skin, the roughness of it hummed against the pad of his fingers. Sherlock's eyes gleamed happily as with each swipe of his fingers, Sherlock drew a shudder from the large man below him, as if he was a trembling stringed instrument. John opened his eyes and, once again, Sherlock was thrown into his awe filled silence. He couldn't help but think how the eyes of this man were so purely magnificent, so deep and blue. It was as if he held the ocean itself in those glittering eyes. John glanced down at his own shoulder. It was then that Sherlock was reminded of the multitude of layers in this man, each one packed with emotions, memories and pain - there was enough experience in John's body to last a man several lifetimes, and the fact that all of this was kept within John's compact body only compelled Sherlock to adore him all the more. Sherlock's eyes studied John's features and watched with amazement as emotions flickered across John's face, as if they were the licks of a burning flame. The blond's features danced from sleepy relaxation, to fear, to self loathing and finally settled on a deep, earth shattering sadness. Sherlock almost regretted mentioning the scar at all, his eyes connected with John's and it was then that the loving affection painted itself across the older man's features once again.  
"I used to work on the ships for the navy." He muttered, his voice hoarse, and Sherlock blushed as he remembered how John had swallowed him down and licked his long pale prick like an obscene lolly-pop just moments before. "I was climbing the rigging of the foremast on the ship, to get a better view of the other ship." As the man spoke, Sherlock imagined him. A golden god dancing along the ropes handing from the foremast of a large ship, the blazing sun behind him, sailors laughing and singing below as the promise of battle hung in the atmosphere. Punctuating the chorus of manly voices would have been the littering of gulls as they squawked and flew atop them. John's feet would be gently and daringly holding his golden body above the deck as his blue zircon eyes scowered along the glittering ocean and to the apposing ship, his gaze flickering across it - gaging their weaknesses and strengths with one glance. Sherlock could almost smell the brine of the scene. The brunette shifted so he was laying more across John's body, the grass tickled the soft pale skin of his thigh as they lay in their secret spot behind the Holmes Estate.

"A smaller ship, much smaller than ours had been trailing us for some time. I don't know - still to this day - how many men were aboard it, but one was most definitely a manning a gun." John swallowed, and his voice strained with the pain of the memory, "They must have saw me in the rigging. But the sniper made his target and took me down." Sherlock gasped as his imagined scene was smashed to tiny shards. "I remember falling. It was terrifying and relaxing all at once. It was as if an angel had taken my body and was guiding me away from that hell." John's eyes were wistful, clouded with a dazed expression as he was transported to that memory. "Then I came clattering to the ground - I broke my leg with the force of it, but if it wasn't for the unused and rolled up mast below, I would have been a dead man when I hit the deck."

Sherlock gasped as the thought of John sprawled on the deck plagued his mind. John's crumpled and mangled body laying in a pool of his own blood, as if it was some sort of crimson mattress. Sherlock's eyes welled up with tears as he pressed a sinew finger to the blond man's lips, he couldn't take any more of what the man was saying. "Please John. Never do something like that again." He begged. The older man sniffled back his own tears as a watery giggle left his chest. He wrapped his thick arms around Sherlock's slight form, he pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.  
"Oh my love, I wouldn't dream of it."

***

"Love?" John's voice, laced in worry, his eyes twinkling with anxiety. Sherlock hadn't realised he had begun crying, he felt John's hand reach up to wipe away his tears. When he pulled back, Sherlock couldn't help but sweep his eyes over the blond man's naked and kneeling form. His thick and powerful legs curled beneath him, the thighs bulging on top of the calves, the muscles stretched under the tanned skin. John's nutty shade added to the desire Sherlock felt burning beneath him that had only been mildly dampened by his watery memory. The desire to taste the man, to feel him in every way returned to him within seconds and he gave John the softest of smiles. Sherlock's eyes travelled further upwards and he blushed brightly when they fell on the long and thick member dangling between John's legs, cradled by his golden-dusted balls. Sherlock was sure that the man's cock was carved from marble, as the ones he had seen between the statues of Greek Gods. He was almost certain that John was a god himself that had descended from heaven. Oh, Sherlock was a wilting dying rose, his own gangly useless limbs, the thin and protruding bones that tented his almost translucent skin. He wanted to cover himself, hide in the blanket so his horrendous malnourished body wouldn't taint John and all his perfection. But alas, he was frozen on the spot as his eyes climbed further up John's body.

The skin at his stomach was creased and wrinkled as he bent over to touch and caress Sherlock's forehead, Sherlock longed to trail his hands along that crinkling skin, to feel how soft it was in comparison to John's calloused hands. The man was a paradox, such a beautiful and all consuming knot in the logistics of biology. John's body spanned from being rough to the touch and a hardened block of steel all the way to being soft, fluffy and almost silky to the touch. Sherlock could drink the man like a thick and warm soup. He could positively devour John in every way known to man.

Sherlock's eyes traveled even further up John's body, a deep heaviness formed in his chest as his eyes fell on the man's face. Oh, if Sherlock had alluded to his love for John he hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of the depth of the adoration that he held for John. Once again, Sherlock's attention was caught on the man's eyes, he was sure that they held the secret to Sherlock's life. In the golden sunlight their colour were of a light sparkling crystal and yet in the dull candlelight of their room, they seemed to be the ocean itself. It was almost as if the bright orbs were the sky an the sea, were acidic yet neutralized, were dangerous yet the very safe house that people ran to in a crisis. John's eyes were the balm that took the sting out of any sore upon Sherlock's body. Sherlock felt he couldn't face John's direct gaze, it was so concentrated and full with magnificence, and he was sure that if he were to make direct contact he would combust into a ball of flames.

"You left me for a moment." John muttered, worry laced his sandy voice. "In fact I was afraid that..." John glanced away slightly, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. "That you didn't like what you saw." He muttered.  
Sherlock's eyes widened and he surged forward, his hands cupping John's cheeks. "No. Oh John, I would never." He spoke with soothing tones, a deep panic settled in the pit of his belly. How could John think such a thing? He wouldn't ever react negatively to John's body, the man was pure, perfect even. Sherlock shook his head quickly, curls bouncing with the erratic movements. "I would never react badly to your body. John, you have no idea! You are..." Sherlock trailed off as he searched for a word that could describe and detail the way in which Sherlock had always felt for John. But as it were, he couldn't find a single word in his thesaurus-like brain that would do John any justice at all. Sherlock's face darkened as he searched for a word, but none of them were good enough, none of them could ever be able to hold or describe such perfection without drowning from the weight of it.  
"Divine." The word was not nearly enough to describe John, but if he were able to present even the slightest truth to the man, Sherlock would have to settle on it. But he resented the fact that he was unable to articulate how he was feeling for John.

John's face crinkled into a fond smile and Sherlock mirrored his grin as he watched the folds in John's skin accentuate his smile. Sherlock longed to be able to feel the skin moving beneath his palms, to taste the very emotions that those creases held, the unspoken words and untold stories that resided there. He was sure that they'd taste so sweet, so magnificent, like life itself. "My love." Sherlock gasped. "M-May I?" He begged for the thing that he desperately wanted - needed - the exquisite urge to pleasure John, it prove to him how beautiful he was, how perfect he was.

At what Sherlock was asking, John nodded with a silent smile and the two men rolled together on the narrow bunk. Their bodies tangled like a grapevine, it was perfect and Sherlock was so tempted to remain like that - knotted in John's exquisite embrace - John lowered himself to the cot and his strong arms rolling Sherlock so the younger man was straddling John's hips. The brunette gently placed his hands on John's broad chest. Sherlock's eyes flitted to the pinkened nubs just inches away from his hands, and with a glance back to John, he reached his thumbs down to brush against them. John shuddered and trembled under his fingers. "Oh f-- Sherlock." He groaned. Sherlock grinned happily at the reaction.  
"Yes, John?" He answered innocently, as he flicked the nipples again. John arched his back and whimpered, he gazed at Sherlock, his mouth quirking in a grin. "You beautiful, wonderful man." He muttered, his eyes full with awe. Sherlock gasped at the depth of feeling he found there.

Sherlock reached out with a tentative hand, his eyes twinkled with anxiety as he gazed upon John's body. He had touched John many times, but with each time, he was terrified of doing something wrong, of touching John in a way he didn't like. For the brunette was sure that with one mistake and John would wither away before his eyes and Sherlock would be left alone again. At the prospect of this, Sherlock gave a panicked whimper, and John must have noticed right away, for his hands had instinctively found Sherlock's and his thumbs were gently stroking the backs of Sherlock's. "It's okay, my love." John coaxed with a gentle voice. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "But I want to." He whined and the very tip of his finger gently touched the top of John's golden thigh. The touch was feather light, and at the connection, John gasped. The intake of breath then melted into a chuckle. Sherlock pulled his hand back as if he had been burned. He glanced at John's face in horror at the notion that his lover would be laughing at him. Sherlock blushed profusely and self consciously, he moved to lift himself from John's body, a frown deepening on his features. Of course he wouldn't be good enough for John, of course John found his foolish attempts amusing. He was a complete fool. "Hey sweetheart." John's hand reached out for Sherlock's own hand, his voice cutting through Sherlock's self loathing thoughts like a knife through butter. Mirth and honesty twinkled in his eyes. "I wasn't laughing at you, my love." John blushed and glanced away shamefully. Sherlock's eyes widened, what did John have to be ashamed of? "I am ticklish, please forgive my sensitivities." John's thumb reached out and caressed Sherlock's hand. The brunette grinned at the news and melted into the caress.

Yet another paradox was added to John's being, another piece of information made its way into the wing dedicated to John, within Sherlock's mind palace. He smiled sweetly towards John; the man, such a dangerous soldier who could destroy the world in one sweep of his hand, who's smile held such unrivalled beauty - was perfect in every way and the lightest of touches was enough to bring the man to his knees. Sherlock promised to use this information in the future, to tease John with it. But for not, he still held the burning desire to pleasure the man beneath him and sat closer to John. This time, rather than with his fingertips, Sherlock allowed his entire palm to touch the man's thigh, he ran it up the thick pillar of flesh. He could feel John's muscles bunching and coiling under the sun-kissed veil of his skin.

Sherlock's eyes followed the path of his hand as rose along John's leg until it finally reached the joint where his thigh connected to his body. His fingers brushed in the course golden hair at the root of his cock and watched with avid fascination as the length of John grew and filled out until it stood high, the curve of it resting against John's belly, the pink head rubbing slickness into his skin. Sherlock couldn't help but admire it's length and girth. Where Sherlock's own prick was like that of his own body - slender - John's seemed much thicker in circumference and longer still than Sherlock's own. The man above him writhed into the sheets. Sherlock's fingers tentatively circled the length of John, he let himself tighten the ring of his fingers ever so slightly and was rewarded by John's gasping as he basked in the pleasure of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock grinned at the reaction and dared to move his fingers further along John's shaft, letting his palm brush against the silky burning skin of his cock until he reached the head of him. The heat there - at the head - was so much stronger than that of the rest of John's cock.

With one last breath for courage, Sherlock allowed his hand to dance across the pink head and through the glistening slick that he found there. He interlaced the slimy substance between his fingers. "Gorgeous." Sherlock gasped. Above him, John was moaning and shuddering under the feather light touches to his cock, Sherlock grinned. - It was due to him that John was writhing, it was due to him that John's self control was slipping and it was due to him that John arched his back into the pleasure. Pride tingled through Sherlock's slight body as he continued with renewed interest.

Sherlock nibbled on his lip in concentration and continued to lazily pump the cock in his hand, he focused particularly on the vein that traveled up the length of the prick, he massaged it and curiously brought a hand up to cradle John's balls. "Oh Sherlock! Oh love!" John gasped. Sherlock glanced up and saw that John's hands were playing with his own nipples. If it weren't for his teeth holding his lip in place with a soft pressure as he focused, Sherlock was sure that his jaw would have dropped at that erotic and lust-filled image. "C-Close." John warned as Sherlock continued to leisurely play with John's cock.

More clear liquid beaded at the head of John's prick, the brunette blushed as he felt the urge to lean down and find out what this man would taste like. He gently lay himself between John's legs and with his eyes connected to John's tentatively slid the very tip of his tongue along the head. John's eyes widened at that and he threw his head back in a bitten off scream. Sherlock swirled his tongue around the head and hummed quietly in pleasure. The taste was salty and bitter but not overpowering. He continued to lap at the head when John grunted out a warning. "Gonna... Cum!"

Sherlock barely had time to close his eyes as a wave liquid came spurting into his mouth. It filled him and hit the back of Sherlock's throat before Sherlock could swallow it down, he pulled off spluttering. The ribbons of cum were soon followed by the ragged moans of the man above him. "Oh! Fuck, Sherlock. I'm s-sorry." John cursed but was powerless to the clutches of his orgasm. Sherlock shook his head. "No John. Please, don't apologise." He begged and moved his hand up to wipe his face clean as and continued to cough lightly as John came down from his orgasm.

Once clean, Sherlock glanced up at the man through his eyelashes. The image Sherlock was greeted with, was enough for him to gasp with a low wave of pleasure coiling in his own belly. His eyes widened at the very sight of him, his eyebrows were pinched high on his head, eyes closed, mouth open slightly and he was panting in pleasure. Sherlock quickly snapped as many mental shots of the man as he could, storing each of them as he remembered the expression that John's face was moulded into. Sherlock couldn't keep the smile from his own face, it was as if he had just unlocked the door to the garden of Eden, for he had just been bared witness to the most beautiful thing in the universe itself.

As John's eyes fluttered open, he glanced to Sherlock with a dazed smile. "C'mere." He drawled, his arm held out revealing John's bare side, it was so inviting and Sherlock allowed himself to fall into the space there. John's arm wrapped around Sherlock's body and pulled him ever closer to his side. John grinned into the room. "That was amazing." Sherlock chuckled at that and nodded.  
"It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen." Sherlock watched in delight as John beamed down at him, Sherlock felt his cheeks blush a deep scarlet. Sherlock closed his eyes and nuzzled into the side of John's pectoral, taking a deep inhale of the sweaty, hair skin under his arm, Sherlock's eyes cracked open and his eyes flicked over the body beside him, a smile spread across his lips. To Sherlock's delight, he found that he was just the right height to be able to kiss the puckered scar. He tipped his head and allowed his lips to gently trace over the damaged skin. Above him, John gasped once more, a shudder shook the strong frame that held Sherlock. "You were amazing sweetheart." He marvelled, voice growling from the effects of his orgasm. Sherlock hummed softly as he felt the light dregs of sleep tease the edges of his vision.

Just as the two men silenced into sleepy lumps, the bell for dinner sounded shrill and sharp. Sherlock twitched against John's body and he opened his eyes, they flashed with frustration at the bell ringer's rude interruption. "I don't wa--" Before Sherlock could protest, a loud gurgle could be heard from his belly. John raised a golden brow at the man. "I don't care if you don't want to. We're going for dinner." He said resolutely. "Then I want to show you one of the greatest sights I've ever laid eyes upon." John muttered and tentatively placed a kiss to the crown of Sherlock's curly head "Besides you, of course."  
"Okay, John." Sherlock giggled at the compliment, his cheeks blushing a slight dusting of pink.


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to dinner.

Bathed in orange candle-light, John and Sherlock cuddled together. Their bodies but a tangle of limbs, knotting them to one another as their two hearts beat as one. Sherlock couldn't keep the happy smile from his face at that thought - he and John entangled together, not able to tell where Sherlock ended and John began. This was perfection, and Sherlock knew that he wouldn't ever get enough of it. A shiver broke out in Sherlock's body as he felt the soft scraping of John's calloused hand gliding down his back, following the path of his spine. His strong and capable fingers curled around the plush cushions of Sherlock's arse, they squeezed the flesh there and at the sensation, Sherlock let out a soft squeak followed by a giggle. 

The brunette gazed up to John and saw that the man had his eyes closed, as if he were taken by slumber, but his smiling mouth gave away that he was actually awake. Sherlock giggled and snuggled closer to the man's body. It was as if Sherlock was made to be there, every curve of his body fit in perfectly with John's own. That cheeky hand on Sherlock's bottom gave him two sharp pats, at the feel of them, Sherlock glanced curiously up to John. The man gave a mournful hum. "We have to get up to have dinner." He muttered. Sherlock groaned at that, a little ball of reluctance settled in his belly and he shook his head in mild protest. John giggled at that and tapped his arse again. "We must, love. I'm not having you go through tonight without eating." He explained with a hardness to his voice that Sherlock didn't dare argue with. 

The bed shifted as John leant his head to the side to drop a kiss to the crown of Sherlock's curly head. "Come on then." He urged and with a final tap, was sitting up. Sherlock groaned in protest and weakly reached for John's arm, he gripped his wrist and attempted to tug the man back beside him, but John remained undeterred. With a huff of frustration, Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow and watched as John dressed himself in his clothes from before. "Why are you doing this to me?" Sherlock pursed his lips into a mock pout as he pretended to frown at the man. "I don't want to." He huffed and raised his chin in nonchalance. 

John glanced back at him, buttoning up his shirt. "No arguing." John replied sternly, and held out a hand towards him. Sherlock glanced at it and leant forward to press a kiss to the inside of John's wrist, leaning his cheek into John's warm palm. At the feel of the feather-light touch a shuddered breath billowed from the blond's chest. "You beautiful thing." He gasped and bent down to press his lips to Sherlock's in a soft kiss. Sherlock felt John's thick hand come up to cradle his cheek, a moan left the younger man's mouth at the taste of John's tongue dancing with his own in a fight for dominance - John obviously won and began lapping at the length of of Sherlock's tongue. The brunette moaned into John's mouth, it was as if John was reeling his breaths out from the depths of his chest as if he were tugging a fish from out of the sea. The two pulled away slightly and Sherlock felt John rest his forehead against his own. "I love you. But you must eat." John sighed against the brunette's lips. With defeated exhale, Sherlock nodded. "Fine." He almost growled as he too rolled from the bed. He reached for his trousers and shirt, dressing himself before bending to tie the laces of his boots. "You are stubborn as an ox, John." Sherlock muttered as he moved to stand, his hands linking around the back of John's neck. "Mmm. You love me, though." The blond muttered thoughtfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.  
"Is that not obvious, John?" He sniped, grin playing on his cupid bow lips. 

At his reply, John threw his head back and gave a deep chuckle, his shoulders bouncing with the rolls of his laughter. Even in the midst of sulking, Sherlock struggled to keep himself from mirroring John's smiling mouth. He pressed another kiss to John's lips before pulling away and sliding into the thick material of his jacket. "Come on, love." John laced their fingers together and brought Sherlock's hand up to press his lips to Sherlock's knuckles. In response, Sherlock shuddered and nodded, allowing himself to be lead from the confines of their room. 

The corridor of the passenger's cabins was a long and dark one. The only light was that of the grey nuance of the moonlight. Sherlock noted, that as they walked towards the steps, there was no sound around them save for the clatter of their boots against the hardwood floor. Once they reached the passenger's saloon, their hands fell apart as John held the door open for Sherlock to walk through. Once stood inside, they saw the litany of people. It was strange seeing such an intermingling of classes at such an important meal as dinner. To the right and sat at unpolished and splintering tables were the lower classes, their clothes matted and dirty but very much cared for - if Sherlock looked closely he could see where the seems had been carefully repaired and patches sewn to cover holes. To the left and sat at large, polished tables, Sherlock saw the first class passengers, their mouths knotted in frowns and grimaces, their eyes glaring at the group of working class passengers. He could hear the hearty chatter of the lower classes' voices all mingling with the hushed complaints of the upper ones. 

"Where shall we sit?" Sherlock whispered to John. It seemed that the longer they stood in the doorway, the more people turned their attention to them. Sherlock felt the soft breathlessness of panic swoop over him, causing his stomach to drop with fear and uncertainty. If the pair were to sit in the upper class area, John would surely be bullied and made a fool of, and Sherlock too for that matter - it was almost a social crime to be caught befriending someone of the lower class much less to fraternize with them. Sherlock's gaze landed on the lower class, the only people whom he had interacted with, that may have socially been considered as lower class were John and Lestrade, and both of them had treated Sherlock with kindness. Blue eyes flicked to Sherlock's own and he nodded at the silent question in the lines of John's face. Together, the two made their way to one of the less populated lower class tables. Their stew was forcefully handed to them by the steward, obviously feeling bitter at having to wait on people of lower class than himself.

As Sherlock and John dropped their gazes to begin eating, the brunette could barely keep himself from hearing the words of the upper class passengers. "Abomination, strange, freak, mongrel." All the words were firing in Sherlock's head like cannons at wartime, a dark cloud settled in the pit of his stomach and Sherlock felt as if the world around him was slowly consumed by the hateful and swirling cloud of words. In his self loathing reverie, he was distantly aware that his hands were trembling and that he had dropped his spoon to the table, until John's own calm and steady hand touched his own clenched fist at his thigh. "Ignore them, love." He whispered into Sherlock's ear.

At the sound of John's comforting voice, Sherlock gave a sigh and felt the tension ease from his shoulders. He plucked the spoon from the table and gave John a soft reassuring smile before moving to shovel the over-boiled vegetables and meat into his mouth. "Where're you both from then?" The words were masked by an Irish lilt and pulled both Sherlock and John from their tense stupors. Sherlock's eyes flicked to each person with whom they shared their table with. Opposite them, were two other men, both of them eating their stews without a single glance to their food, their eyes securely fastened on Sherlock and John. "The north." John supplied, his hand tightened a little on Sherlock's own, under the table. "We travel a lot." He muttered as way of an explanation to his previously brief answer.

The older of the two men nodded, his eyes were wrinkled with crows feet, and Sherlock couldn't tell if the lines on his face was induced from laughing or frowning. His hair was a shock of white, his mustache was curled at the sides and his eyes were steely and cold, the man beside him was almost a complete opposite. His thinner frame and waxed black hair a stark contrast to the other man's, his face was devoid from wrinkles and his hair still retained most of it's colour, but it was obvious that the two were of similar ages.   
"Travelers, eh?" The black-haired man hummed with a nod, he glanced to the man by his side with a knowing smirk stretched across his lips. The almost cruel expression cast shivers down Sherlock's spine and sent him reeling with a sickening worry. "You the type that's been takin' up farmer's land without permission?" The black-haired man asked, his voice heavy with accusation.   
"Davis." A harsh and scathing snipe shot from the white-haired man's lips. He glanced apologetically between Sherlock and John. "I must apologize for my friend's ill manners, 'is pappy's a farmer and -." He gave a quick glance at the man - Davis - before his eyes fell back to John and Sherlock. "Well, let's just say, 'is pappy didn't take too kindly to the travelers in 'is area." He explained. "I'm Bentley and he's Davis." He reached out a hand to John, who shook it and then he extended it to Sherlock. When Sherlock reached to shake his hand in return, he couldn't help but gasp at how tightly the man's grip was around his fingers. He shot a glance to John before allowing his eyes to fall on Davis and Bentley. "I'm John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes." John smiled as his thumb jerked between himself and Sherlock respectively.

Bentley gave a thoughtful glance between the two men and the heat of it unsettled something within Sherlock, it must have incited a similar reaction in John because the blond tightened his grip on Sherlock's fist, under the table. "Your friend isn't a talkative fella is 'e?" Bentley asked and John's eyes flicked to Sherlock before falling back to the men before them.  
"No, he prefers to stay quiet." John explained, a fondness in his voice was lining the words and Sherlock couldn't help the flutter of happiness that washed over him.   
"Is that his decision or yours." Davis chirped with a look of intrigue dancing in his irises as they jumped between the two. Sherlock dropped his gaze into the bowl as his cheeks flushed with colour, he wasn't aware of the exact thing that colored their thoughts, but he was partly aware of the nature of them.  
"It's my preference." Sherlock muttered.  
"He speaks!" Bentley gave a loud bellowing laugh and the sound of it almost knocked Sherlock from his chair in fight. 

John frowned at the men before them and glanced back to Sherlock, "I wish to show my friend around the ship. He's never been on one before." John stated before casting a fake smile to Bentley and Davis. "If you'd excuse us." He muttered before standing and pushing his chair under the table, he gave Sherlock's shoulder a light squeeze before moving to walk away from the scene. Sherlock nodded and followed suit, he copied the nature of John's smile before leaving the two men in pursuit of John's retreating back. 

Struggling to keep their hands apart, Sherlock and John almost ran from the passengers' saloon and raced to the upper deck. Once they'd escaped the muggy air from the within the ship, John lead Sherlock to the deck above the fore top, their backs presented to the foremast. He glanced to Sherlock, his hand now lacing with the other's. "Are you okay, my love?" He asked in a hushed voice. Upon seeing the concern in his lover's face, Sherlock moved closer to John and pressed against his side. "I am. But... That was strange." He frowned, his own anxiety from a moment ago rushing back to him. John nodded, in understanding. "I know. Something seemed amiss, didn't it."

At the gravity of John's tone, Sherlock felt his skin pale. He glanced at the floor and then back to John, the thought of Davis and Bentley somehow gaining knowledge of the nature of Sherlock and John's relationship was enough to send terrified shivers down Sherlock's body. As if the blond could read Sherlock's thoughts, he pulled Sherlock ever closer to him and pressed a soft fleeting kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I promise you, no matter what happens, no harm is going to come to you or I. I will not allow it." He almost growled.

It was an empty promise, and Sherlock knew that, but something about the way in which John uttered those words were enough to sate Sherlock's fear of what may lie in the future, he nodded his understanding to John and leant against him, his arms falling around John's waist holding him close to his body. "I know, John."


End file.
